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Mike Stools
I think I'll write a poem called "Fuck"
I'll just keep going 'til I get stuck.
For, though I have nothing to say
I thought I'd write it anyway.
Feel free to bale out any time
It's your right; It ain't a crime
But trust me when I give this warning,
My dull poem could set you yawning.
But if you feel that you're content
To read a poem with no content
You're welcome in this ode with me
I'd even make a cup of tea
For you my reader if I could
But poetry's not quite what it should
Be and to do something that's physical
Would be pointless and derisible,
So excuse me while I waffle on
Instead of stopping to put the kettle on.
Did you see Brookside last night?
I thought it was a crock of shite.
Oh, if I were the ideal host
I'd cook you up a Sunday roast
But you'll not get a can of Fanta
As you read my puerile banter.
And it won't get any better
So you might want to go get a
Shot of whisky or a keg of
Ale or you might gnaw your leg off,
Poke your eyes out with a stick
Or pour petrol on your dick
And drop a burning match on it,
And then you'll scream out "Holy Shit!
What the fuck have I just done?
It started out a bit of fun,
But now this poem has just gone silly
And I've gone and burned my willy.
I'd better get a glass of water."
(Or you might say something shorter.)
Now, I don't know if you're a blamer
But I'd like to issue this disclaimer.
Because I couldn't make you a cup of tea
I'm not accepting responsibility
For personal injury or loss
Just because this poem is toss.
You read these lines at your own risk,
I don't care if you've slipped your disc.
I don't care if you've gone insane,
It's not this poem that's fried your brain.
I bet you've taken lots of drugs,
Dealt to you by skinhead thugs.
Well, we don't want your sort round here
You give our fucking dogs the fear
This poem was written for decent folk
Not brainless cunts who are high on coke
Or jack up 'til they're off their tits
And fall down in convulsive fits.
So, get the fuck out of my poem
Before I find you too annoying,
You scrounging willy burning prat,
You whinging parasitic twat,
I'll make you leave this poem, my friend,
By simply coming to the end.
