pooclub

I might go down the pub tonight.
The moon is shining nice and bright,
The breeze is mild,
My hair is styled
And everything's all right!

I might go down "The Royally".
My bum is not boily.
I could go drink some beer.
My head does not feel queer,
And it is near.
But I don't.
I just sit here
Because I can't be arsed.

I might go out tomorrow morn
And get a job or mow the lawn
Or wash the car or walk the dog
Or invent a cure
For fog.

I might go gliding
Or water sliding.
I might go hiking
Or mountain biking.
I might go sailing
Or Inter-railing.
No.
I can't be arsed.

I might get up off my fat arse
And hang around in trendy bars
And pull a bloke who's really fit
And up for it.
But instead
I'll lie in bed
Because I can't be arsed.

I'd like to go to the loo
But instead I'll sit here and poo,
And when I need a steaming wee
I'll sit here and drink my tea,
But someone else will have to make it
Because I can't be arsed.

And when I start to feel quite peckish
I'll sit here like an ancient wreckage.
I will not move, I will not worry.
I'll phone up Chakwal and get a curry
And when they bring it to my door
I will lie down on the floor
My bell will ring and ring and ring,
And I will sit, not do a thing!
My hunger will just fade away
Because I can't be arsed.

There's something crappy on the box,
A cartoon about talking socks.
I'd switch to something that had more soul
But I can't find the remote control
And the telly is too far away.
I'll sort it out another day.
On my couch, for now, I'll lay,
Unmoving like a lump of clay.

If you like, you can pop round.
To see my friend would be sound.
But if you ring my bell,
Well . . .
Don't expect to see me,
I'll be in my room, surrounded by poo and wee-wee
And several cartons that once had curry
That were intercepted in a hurry
By my flat mates on their merry way
Who brought it up and offered to pay.
My only food is my pooey pants
Yuk, yuk, yuk, what a rancid thought.

I think perhaps it's time that I
Got a life or chose to die.
I have to decide before I sink
Further into this putrid stink.
If I don't sort out my life
I will end up in some strife.
I will end up deep in sorrow.
I'll sort it out tomorrow.
Pass me a joint,
I don't see the point,
But you'll have to roll it
Because I can't be arsed.

I really like writing shitty prose,
I'd like to write lots more,
But I think I'll leave it there.
I can't be arsed writing any more
Or thinking of anything to rhyme with "more"
Except "more".

Kate Rancid (b. 1973)