It’s quarter past eight,
I’ve got training at nine,
I better be quick,
or I won’t be on time.
But my sister just saw me and pointed and said,
I’ve a terrible, bad case of
Bedhead.

I better not linger
Or bother or brood,
Or the coach will be worse
Than her usual mood,
But I’m worried it might be beginning to spread,
this ominous-sounding
Bedhead.

I hope it that it won’t
Hold me back on the pitch,
But I’m starting to sneeze
And I’m starting to itch,
Perhaps I should stay home and lie down instead,
And get rid of this bothersome
Bedhead.

It must be quite bad,
This disease that I’ve got,
‘Cause my Mum took one look
And she said I looked hot,
Remember me fondly, long after I’m dead,
From this dreadful disease,
with its itch and its sneeze,
this alarming and fast-acting
Bedhead.