A Mist Of Beautiful Clarity


I do enjoy a spot of verse to get me through the day,
But I like it to be funny, and most of it's just gay,
Most the so-called poets, they just make me feel irate,
They never write of toilets, or of how their tits are great.

I just don't care for Sylvia Plath,
Not once has her stuff made me laugh,
And Wordsworth's stuff was long and wordy,
Bereft of words like 'minge' and 'turdy',
And has there ever been less fun,
Than having to peruse John Donne?
Or read a verse by some Rossetti,
I'd rather suck on mike's spaghetti.
And Keats's sonnets can fuck off,
And that Russian bloke who ends in ...ov,
And those other ones as well, they're shite,
No, That's just it, they're not. That would be alright.

The Descent Of Man

(or "Ode On Mike's Vasectomy")

I used to know a man who was a real rugged guy,
The sort of bloke that men respect, but makes the women cry,
The sort of man in winter who'd refuse to wear a vest,
A real man, a tough man, with hairs upon his chest.

He'd laugh at scary lions and kill tigers with his hands,
He'd drink a thousand pints of beer but still be fit to stand,
He'd play his heavy metal at the loudest it would go,
And only wear a flimsy shirt despite six feet of snow.

But then a bad thing happened that would change the poor man's life,
He let a filthy doctor at his bell end with a knife,
And now the manly man's man is a manly man no more,
He's a feeble-wristed queer boy firing blanks and feeling sore

A Tribute To Christopher Reeve

A Tribute To Christopher Reeve

Oh Superman, oh Superman,
Oh super, super man.
Oh hunky man, oh hunky man,
Oh lovely fine young man.

Donít go near that horse, though,
Donít go near that horse.

Oh dangerous man, oh scary man,
Oh hurtling-towards-disaster man.
Clo . . .


Wee-wah goes the ambulance.

Bad horsey.

Nice doctor.

Oh fliddy man, oh fliddy man,
Oh canít move any more man,
Oh totally fucked man,
Oh life-is-over man.

Canít get out of that chair now,
Canít get up.

Oh dribbly man, Oh dribbly man,
Oh piss yourself and shit yourself man,
Spa . . .


Oh Superman, oh Superman,
Not so super now are you

Hammersmith Apollo

If the thought of going to London
Ever seems appealling,
Pop in to Hammersmith Apollo,
See the huge cunt on the ceiling.

It's a good 40 foot long,
Maybe 15-20 feet wide,
With inner and outer flaps,
And red carpet stuff inside.

I stood beneath it in awe,
And let out an admiring sigh,
And I swear something warmish and sticky
Dripped into my eye



When I am feeling pale and wan, like I might soon be dead,
When my legs have turned all wobbly and itís spreading to my head,
I know I donít need vegetables, tomatoes or a quince,
I need the healing powers of a meal thatís made from mince.

Some say eating green things is the way to stay alive,
But without my ground-up beef I just donít think I could survive.
Itís affordable by all, if youíre a pauper or a prince.
Oh wonderful, delectable, delicious-tasting mince.

I couldnít be a veggie, eating tofu every day.
Iíd probably get violent if you took my meat away.
My hands would be all blood-stained and would merit a good rinse,
Iíd be in jail, and all because you tried to nick my mince.

Yes some folk they will worship at the altar of a sprout,
But I wonít entertain those things, theyíre vile, I spit them out.
Theyíre loathsome green carbuncles and their texture makes me wince.
Bugger them, theyíre rancid, and Iím happy with my mince.

Waiting For The Codeine To Dissolve

Waiting For The Codeine To Dissolve

The first one plops, fizzes and begins to fade away
Before the second has even left its pouch,
Like a miracle of science in my kitchen.
The second, not so miraculous, crumbles to dust as it
leaves the packet.
Snow-fall of white powder on the table.
Oh no.

With hands like congealed semolina, clammy and disobedient,
Frantically waving, wiping, scooping,
Must . . . not . . . loose . . . any . . .
  Must . . . not . . . loose . . . any . . .
Until finally all is captured and -
Into the glass at last!

And now to wait.

Waiting bad.
Head wrong. Wrong head.
Numb pain.
Dizzy and sick.
Too big.
Bed. Bed.
Too late.
BegÖ Please hurry.

Finally it settles in a mist of beautiful clarity.
Each iridescent bubble a marvel.
Each drop survival.
And now to drink.

Bollocks that tastes rancid.


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