Godiva's Town

Where the fuck are you?!
Where the fucking hell are you?!
I'm standing here in the freezing cold,
chaining my lungs out ans stomping my feet.

Where the fuck are you?!
Where the fucking?! Fuck are you?!
I've been waiting twenty minutes and I've thrown away the receipt.

For fucks sake!
Where the fuck are you?!
Where the fucking hell are you?!
I've been stood up in the arctic blizzard
Abandoned in Godiva's town.

Getting On

Saw your number stuck in a telephone box
Called you up as the card said you love sucking cocks
Mature and experienced was wat I was looking for
Not sags and bags and a buss pass

5 for a cuddle
10 for a handjob
20 for a bj
and 50 for all the way

Whips and chains and varicose veins
and unsavoury trouser stains
Whips and chains and varicose veins
and unsavoury trouser stains
a glass eye and dentures and severe back pains
Whips and chains and varicose veins
and unsavoury trouser stains
a glass eye and dentures and severe back pains
and a small pension and a flacid phallus
These whips, chains and varicose veins

AUODFCKEG

You can't say fuck on Countdown.
There'd be public outrage,
Old biddy's erratically scribbling angry letters due to the picture that couldn't be erased.

You can't say fuck on Countdown.
Society would collapse,
There'd be riots on the streets and the knights would be called to arms.

You can't say fuck on Countdown.
Curse words would lose all meaning,
To say fuck cunt cunt or nigger,
Would be attributed as idle twitter.

You can't say fuck on Countdown,
Its' all down to that bastard Brown's broken Britain.

To say fuck on Countdown is to fuck God.

Writer's Block

The writer has hit a dead end,
His brain is numb,
His hands are bound,
His spirit is broken,
His mind is blank,
His inspiration has run dry,
His gift is fried.

The writer has lost his muse
Without her he's redudant,
He's a silent observer
He's a social commentator with a blind eye,
He's an attentive listener with deaf ears,
A hopeless loner with dead peers.

Unable to write the poet contemplates sucide.
To be treasured when he was living,
To be idolised in the afterlife.

But the writer cannot decide,
To figure out what to to write,
On his tombstone.
Ergo writer's block means illogical sucide.

Here lies Steerpike....

Pig

You are the agent of a bastard society.
You are the pawn of an ill-informed government.
You are the death angel of an intolerant minister.
You are the merciless executioner of a corrupt judiciary.
You are the mercenary of a flawed legislature.

You are menace and should be armed with a foam truncheon
You are a dumb, deaf and blind soldier with an itchy trigger finger.

When you remove that uniform.
Your still the same.
Trotters and all.
Curly tail between your legs.
You officer are a pig!

Thirst

I am a desperate man,
I am Desperate Dan

I am a fool in love,
I am a jealous bastard

I am a short temper and a blow to the head,
But I am a coward

I am purity,
I am a pervert

I am honesty,
I am truth

I am deceit an illusion of what I am,
I will show no mercy, I will make it bleed.

I am ruthless,
But I still have my youth

As a poet I will drink their tears,
I will swallow their praise
I will devour their entities
I will bask in their unadulterated adoration

Poet In Infancy

I am Byron's arrogance
I am Hughes' brutality
I am Wordsworth's beauty
I am Hardy's humanity
I am Skelton's faith
I am Spenser's reason
I am Duffy's oppression
I am Keats' romance
I am Tennyson's courage
I am Yeats' patriotism
I am Heaney's militancy
And I am Dylan's rhythm

But, for I am just an infant learning to crawl