My son, I cut your umbilical cord
Thirty years ago
You’re still at home
I reckon it’s time to go

You spend your life sleeping
Or drinking to puke-dom-com
There are few happy snaps of you
In our family album

So, give the Salvos those low-cut pants
Where we can see your crack
And stop treating our house
Like a hapless dero’s shack

My son, thirty years on
You’re still at home
It’s time to move on
It’s time to go it alone

Stop using ‘Porky’s’ and ‘The Hangover’
As training films for your life
It’s time for you to settle down
Perhaps find a nice, caring wife

Do you plan to make hip-hop, grunge, and punk
The soundtrack of your life?
So many songs of hate and anger
Of anarchy, violence, and strife

So, my dear son, thirty years on
It’s time for me to let you know
It’s time for you to move along
It’s time for you to go
Yes, it’s surely time for you to go.