Fingering The Fluffy Possum
Antipodean Nightmare

Antipodean Nightmare

What's that noise, I sit and wonder,
A funny sound, as loud as thunder,
I think it's coming from abroad...
Oh blow me down mate. It's a wobble board.

Here comes Rolf from out the bush,
Half a lemmington in his mush,
Riding on a kangaroo,
Blowing on a didgeridoo.

And who is this? I beg your pardon?
You actually called your band Savage Garden?
Your music sounds like savage shit,
No! I will not listen to it!

Oh God, I think I'm having a haemmorage -
Oh no. It's just Dame Edna Everidge,
Fingering the fluffy possum,
That she's got shoved up her bottom.

"I must be leaving," I mutter shyly,
But then I spot her "Strewth! It's Kylie!"
Her music sucks, she has no hits,
But we forgive her cos she's got great tits.

So on with my poetic labours -
And here comes Harold! Straight from neighbours!
Oh Harold, tell me, is it right?
Do we see your bum tonight?

Oh, Oz is truly very scary,
The bush is thick and very hairy,
Not like mine, which is quite sparse,
And stops before it hits my arse.

I'm glad that I don't live there,
In your antipodean nighmare
Where Savage Garden are allowed,
To roam the streets, hidden in the crowd.

And crocodiles roam the streets,
Looking for a nice Australian to eat,
And psychos take immense delight,
At setting British backpackers alight.

Someone At My Door

There's someone at my door!
I think I shall ignore,
Their knocking 'til they're through,
Yes that is what I'll do.

There's someone at my door!
It could be a foul whore!
Riddled with foul sin,
I SHALL not let her in.

There's someone at my door!
One person, maybe more!
Their knock goes on and on,
I'll be happy when they're gone.

There's someone at my door!
Perhaps it's plague or war!
A sadness come to stay,
When will it go away?

There's someone at my door!
I'm starting now to bore,
Perhaps I'll go downstairs,
And catch them unawares.

There's someone at my door!
I pad accross the floor,
My heart beats loud and fast,
Soon I will know at last!

There's someone at my door!
Soon I will know for sure,
I turn my rusty key,
Oh just who can it be?

There's someone at my door!
They knock and knock no more,
The bastards must have gone,
I must have took too long.

There's no-one at my door!
They've gone, so ends my chore,
Back upstairs I'll be going,
To finish off my poem.

Hippy Lament in the style of Eminem (read with Eminem's voice in your head) Hippy Lament

Hippy Lament

I'm unwashed,
And I don't even ****ing care,
I never even bother
To wash my mother******* hair,
So now it's home
To a mother******** sparrow,
Do you want to come round to mine?
I'll do your tarot.

These are my friends,
They're all like me,
I met them in a wood,
We were saving a tree,
And we're all really individual,
That's why we don't look like you,
What do you mean we all look the same as each other?
Who the **** are you?

Is that a CAR you're driving?
Do you WANT to end up beheaded?
Or responsible for killing or maiming some ****ing
I hope it runs off unleaded,
You really should leave it at home you know,
Get a push bike or maybe just walk,
Do you want a chick pea and brown stuff sandwich?
No we don't have any pork.

Do you believe in peace cos I do,
I think we should look after each other - we try to,
Yeah, we squat a big house up the road from here,
They keep trying to kick us out. ********! Hey - can I
have a beer?
I spent all my giro on some new juggling gear.
Hey can my main man Jupiter have one too?

Fish Monging

Deep in the heart of London town,
Where the sky is black and the streets are brown,
And the air is thick with the fumes of cars,
And the roads are lined with banks and bars,
And the people run 'cos their time is short,
With their mobiles on and their faces taut.
Deep in the heart of London fair
A fishy smell pervades the air.

Just to one side of Upper Street,
Prepare yourselves for an awesome treat.
A woman whose stall is truly enthralling,
Despite the strong smell which is rather appalling.
A fish stall has she, in the heart of the city -
A stall filled with fish neither useful nor pretty.
She sits with these creatures by night and by day
Just in case custom might wander her way.

"Buy my fresh fish!" you can hear her call out.
"My haddock is lovely and so is my trout!
Why not try whitebait or maybe some sild?
Oh, buy my fresh fish! It's been recently killed!"
Her words are drowned out by the sound of the cars
And the people ignore her as they crawl from the bars.
No-one wants fish in the midst of the city.
They know that they're rancid and putrid and shitty.

The whelks are dishevelled, they've seen better times.
The mussels are brown with a thin layer of slime.
The prawns are as grey as a grey thing can be.
It's been several days since they last saw the sea.
A terrible odour hangs thick in the air.
Who in their right mind would buy stuff from there?
And who is the woman who owns this crap place?
Is she quite mad? Is she quite off her face?

Her name is Mad Gertrude, her story is sad.
She comes from the south coast, and she is quite mad.
Driven insane by a dose of the clap
That she caught off some sailor she ensnared in her trap.
The clap it grew nasty, untreated and sore.
The puss smelled so bad as it dripped on the floor,
And soon all the locals were up their arms
Wanting rid of mad Gertrude and her bad V.D. charms.

Now the seaside resort from where poor Gertrude hails
Is as stinky as poo and as slimy as snails,
But nothing around there could cover the smell
Of Gertrude's foul minge with its odour from Hell.
So the locals met up to discuss Gertrude's fate
Because her bad smell they had started to hate.
"Let's send her to London, it's a horrible place!
Where she can sell fish...

Do you fancy finishing this? I'm bored...

Mike: Sure! No problem!

... like turbot and dace.

September 2002

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