Classical | Contemporary | Humour | Shite



Kate Rancid



The night was dark and damp with rain,
The wind blew loud and cold,
A man came limping down the lane,
Dirty, thin and old.

His shoes were gone, his coat was worn,
His face was wet with tears,
His trousers, which were stained and torn,
Had not been changed for years.

Beneath his strides so black with grime,
His nasty pants did sit,
They'd not been washed for quite some time,
And so were full of shit.

The shit was soft, despite the cold,
It dribbled down his legs,
It smelled like gone-off sausage rolls,
Combined with rancid eggs.

The shit it splashed upon the street,
And mingled with the rain,
The man was starving - what could he eat?
He really wasn't sane.

He pulled his trousers round his knees,
And scooped himself a treat,
And thought of chicken, cake and cheese,
And lovely things to eat.

He had his fill and soon was off,
But then he gave a frightful cough,
And puked his guts up well and true,
Vomiting his own stale poo,
You might think that this tale's depraved,
But it does get worse than this I'm 'fraid,
For as he looked down at his chunder,
He begun once more to feel strange hunger,
And so he ate his puked up shit,
What a mad, mad, mad old git.

Kate Rancid (b. 1973)