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

Berry Rec.

I'll be your doormat, I'll be your rug.
I'll be your dogsbody, I'll be your mug.

I'll be your handyman, your slave of all trades.
I'll be your obedient bitch on mininum wage.

North/South Division

I wish I was born a Northerner,
Bursting out of the womb wearing a cloth cap.
Firmly grasping a pint o' bitter, roll-up in my mouth.

I wish I was born a Northerner,
Down't pit wit' pick axe in my hand,
Work thirty hour days and then collapse exhausted.

I wish I was born a Northerner,
I'd wear my heart on my sleeve,
I'd of been close to the theatre of dreams.
Red and black scarf round my neck.
Hollering as I drew the sonic rapier from its sheath.

I wish I was born a Northerner,
I'd have socialised with the elite,
Drinking from the lyrical fountain of Ryder, Morrissey, Lawrence and Hughes.

I wish I was born a Northerner,
Cos the South is full o' clowns,
Scenesters, shisters, shallow bastards
Cunts that'd sell you out for half an ounce.