My Rotten Fadge
Mrs Braithwaite

Mrs Braithwaite

I have a little woman
And she visits twice a week
To clear away the rubbish
And prevent a nasty reek.
She brings along her hoover,
Her polish, pail and brush,
And brightly sets about her task
Of clearing out my bush.

She's always got some gossip,
She's cheap and half the price.
I wish I could afford her
Every day 'cause she's so nice.
She wears a little apron
And ties it round her front,
And swiftly disappears
Inside the caverns of my cunt.

She stays up there for hours,
She takes pride in her work.
It's really all quite painless,
I just feel the odd swift jerk.
The buzzing of her vacuum
On my life does not impinge.
I give a little whistle so
Folks can't hear her up my minge.

She often comes out filthy,
All drenched with sweat and slime,
And occasionally scarlet,
If it's my Dirty Time.
She never misses corners,
She's in every nook and cranny,
From the contours of my cervix
To the fish flaps round my fanny.

Yes I have a little woman,
Mrs Braithwaite is her name.
I pay her twenty quid a week,
And cleaning is her game.
She's so very good at scrubbing,
She deserves a special badge.
My little cleaning woman.
Who cleans out my rotten fadge.

Not Funny Anymore

I really don't know why
But I'm not funny any more,
Like a boil that has been lanced,
Or a nicely healed arse sore.
Like a man that almost fell off
A big log but then was saved,
I'm a paragon of common sense
When once I was depraved.

I used to be so rude,
But now I struggle to say "poo".
I can't muster a titter
When I'm sat upon the loo.
You could all shit your pants
And all I'd feel was rather ill.
It's rubbish being sullen
And it gives me no big thrill.

Yes I used to be so funny
But now it has all gone to shit.
I just can't crack a joke,
Not even one about my tits.
If I had wrote this poem
Weeks ago you might guffaw,
But now it's just as funny
As a scab that feels all sore.

I think I'll end this verse now,
As it will not make you laugh.
It's sadly unamusing
And really rather naff.
I think I'll go and do some work.
It might just get me smiling.
I think I might just start
With some filing.



Oh dear Oh dear,
I drank too much beer,
I want to go to bed,
A pig shat in my head,
I feel so uneasy,
My tummy is all queezy,
My lungs are all wheezy,
It is such a drag,
I smoked too many fags,
As well.

I'm in Hell!
My attention span grows shorter,
I must drink some water,
Something for the pain,
There's a demon in my brain,
I can hear thunder crashing,
Before my eyes little lights are flashing,
Torches from the little men,
Telling me never to drink again,
Oh help me please I don't know what to do,
Maybe I should drink a can of special brew,
Hair of the dog, or so they say,
But I did the deed and now I must pay.

I'm floppy like putty,
Make me a fried egg butty,
Oh God Oh God,
Fry me some cod,
I need to consume endless quantities of grease,
Allow me some release,
From this pain,
I'm going down the drain.
With all this rubbish going through my brain,
Like ball sports,
And all sorts.

Help me
Help me

I'm dying,
I'm drying,
I'm dying,
I'm drying,
I'm dying,
Can't you hear me crying?
I'm not lying,
I'm dying.


September 2002

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