Oh fuck yourself, you rancid corpse,
And fuck yourself some more,
And when you're done, go fuck your mum,
We all know she's a whore,
With sagging breasts and hairy arse,
And teeth of black and green.
Your mam's a slag, and we all know
Exactly where she's been.
You say a lentil you'd find hard
To fight? Well ha ha ha.
That's because you're busy
Faffing in your mam's best bra.
Your head is down between her legs,
The smell is bad, like poo.
But you don't mind that any more,
'Cause your wife smells that way too.
Oh dearie me, oh dearie me,
I must have touched a nerve,
For you to get all cross like that
With gusto and with verve.
I think that you've got poem rage
And it's making your blood boil.
You really ought to cool it
Or your pants you're going to soil. (Again)
Try to think of soothing things
Try saying "Calm blue ocean".
Or take a nice relaxing bath
With lavender and camomile lotion.
It's pointless getting all het up
Don't be a silly wench,
Or you'll turn out like those fucked up
Hot headed bastard French.
You're right, my friend, let's get on track,
We should not fight like this.
Our attentions now should lie on those
That stink of cheese and piss.
Our stripey t-shirt brothers
Who do dwell across the sea,
And sell us what we think is wine,
But they know is just wee.
Those foul, unpleasant French men
With their silly facial hair,
And their bloody rubbish music,
Their "mais oui" and "je suis fair".
Why don't they just all fuck off,
And just leave us? Oh God please,
Just leave us all their lovely booze,
And their lovely, lovely cheese.
I'm sorry that we quarrelled Mike,
It made me feel quite sad,
You know I didn't mean it when
I hinted you were mad,
And I really DO like Star Trek,
More than you'll ever know,
Oh lovely, lovely Mikey,
I really love you so.
Oh Katy, Katy, Katy,
You know I love you too.
I hate it when we row and fight,
I really, really do.
So let us bury the hatchet
And to show you how I feel,
Please let me take you out
For a lovely slap up meal.
I know this place in Islington,
An authentic French bistro.
They use the finest ingredients,
No Oxo cubes or Bisto.
They squeeze you in a narrow space,
Your table's much too small.
You feel like you are in Provence,
Not Islington at all.
The waiters all are arrogant,
The manager is rude,
Unseen inside the kitchen
Their chef wanks into your food.
You can't get wines from Italy,
Or Spain or California,
They'll only serve you French ones,
I thought I'd better warn you.
So, come, oh come and dine with me
Where steaks are red with blood.
Let's tell their accordion player
That he isn't very good.
Let's eat their tiny portions
And I'll pay their massive bill,
And next day in the morning
We can both feel rather ill.
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