The Stuff Of Dreams
I really don't like people.
They're as tiresome as can be.
They're always being boring
Or else being mean. To me.
They hang around in bunches
Like they're plotting some big riot,
And when I walk right past them
They go quiet.
I'm just not keen on people,
They don't understand my art,
I'm happier when people
And myself are kept apart.
They're silly pink-skinned monkeys
With outrageous heads of hair.
I prefer my life when people
Are not there.
I don't like fucking people,
How I wish they'd go away.
I have to see their nasty
Ugly faces every day,
They hang about on corners
And they hang about in shops
In silly skirts or trousers
And t-shirts, vests or tops.
I wish there were less people,
Just a couple would be fine,
Just me and you, some chocolate,
Some camembert and wine,
And no more bastard people
To ruin my nice day.
No, no more people 'cos they will
Have all gone far away.
Sometimes I think I wasn't born
To walk among this scum.
A bad mistake was made by God,
The Devil, or my mum.
I'm meant for something greater
Like the Queen of all the stars,
But I'm stuck here with these people
And it gets right up my arse.
I wish I could kill people,
See their horrid faces die.
Oh, why can't I kill people?
Oh, why, oh why, oh why?
The world would be a better place
Without their stupid crap.
If I can't kill some people
I might crack.
Yes I'm GOING to kill some people,
Got my gun and bullets here.
I'm going to go down town now
And give them all the Fear.
I'll find a shopping centre
Where the worst ones go to shop,
Then I'll fire a round into the crowd
And watch the fuckers drop.
And when I've killed all people,
(Except for one or two),
The world will then belong to ME,
I'll do what I want to do.
I'll work when I DECIDE to work
And when I want I'll play
Without those crappy people things
Getting in my way.
A Goth In Summer
The summer sun is shining down,
Upon our pastey skin,
The flowers raise their pretty heads
And give a little grin.
The eagles in the sky above
Do soar and swoop with glee,
And everyone is smiling,
The sky is of the bluest blue,
The grass is green as green.
The painter lifts his brush to paint
The cheerful summer scene.
The little children laugh and run,
Their minds and spirits free.
And everyone is happy,
I sit around in clothes of black,
My curtains shut so tight,
And play my Mission records 'til
The sun's gone and it's night.
My palid face relies on cold,
My complexion's pale and wan,
And I can't go out for several weeks
In case I get a tan.
I spray patchouli round my flat,
And lacquer on my hair,
And put on 50 bangles,
With the black clothes that I wear.
Sometimes I wear white shirts,
But I'm really not that fussy,
As long as it looks good,
On Wayne Hussy.
Sometimes you might see me
As I walk along the street,
Unable to resist the human
In me who must eat,
You'll laugh from street-side cafes
With your mocha which is frothy,
As I go by clad in blackness,
Yes the summer is unfolding,
And the people laugh and play,
And make plans for little picnics,
And holidays away,
But I think I'll take my pen now,
And make poems of my wrath,
Cos summer is a CUNT,
When you're a goth.
Ode On Pooclub's First Birthday
Oh lovely place, Oh place so fine,
Oh place as good as vintage wine,
More fun than zoos or Alton Towers,
Or picnics, fairs or golden showers,
As warm as Spain or Argentina,
Or maybe France but much less cleaner,
Oh place of good, the stuff of dreams,
Where nothing's ever what it seems.
Oh land of hope and land of joy,
A place to niggle and annoy,
A place to rant and vent your spleen,
And say words that are quite obcene,
A place that's filled with so much love,
A place that fits us like a glove,
This lovely place? Well it's Leeds of course!
What? Pooclub? Don't be silly.
That sucks the cock of a scabby horse!
Timothy Taylor's Landlord
Timothy Taylor wrung his hands
Not knowing what to do.
Thursday had come round again,
The day his rent was due.
He'd been out drinking Friday night
And used up all his cash,
And now he felt like such a cunt
As he fingered his moustache.
The clock struck one, the doorbell rang,
Poor Timmy felt quite sick.
He knew his landlord rather well,
He truly was a prick.
He knew his landlord would not like
To hear the rent was late.
An evil man his landlord was,
A man our Tim did hate.
The landlord walked into the flat
And bellowed "Where's my rent?"
"I'm sorry, but I... Oh my God...
Is it true that you're quite bent?"
A twinkle hit the landlord's eye,
"My Boy," he said "I'm gay,
And if you cannot pay in cash,
We'll find some other way.
Just get your pants off over there,
And bend over, I'll be quick..."
Poor Timmy stood and gasped,
"Oh God... is that really all YOUR dick?"
"What this old thing? Oh no! There's more!"
The landlord laughed and roared,
Then reaching down into his pants
He pulled out 10 yards more.
The landlord's dick, when quite erect,
Was 23 feet 5,
And our poor Tim began to think
He'd not escape alive,
So shivering he dropped his pants,
And waited for the pain,
And thought of how he'd spent his rent,
And how he wouldn't, ever again.
Poopee poopee poopee poo
Oh poopee poopee poo
Poopee Poopee poopee poo
Oh Poopee poopee Peeeeeeeee!
Pooing is easy
Pooing is fun
Pooing is brown
It comes out of your bum.
Pooing is magic
Pooing is great
Pooing is tasty
When it's done on a plate.
Poo poo poo your pants
Fill your pants with poo
Smellily smellily smellily smellily
Now I smell like you
Mary had a little poo
She strained for quite a while
She strained so hard she went quite blue
And now she has big piles
Poo poo crap sheep
Have you any shit?
Yes sir, yes sir,
Bags of it
The wheels on the poo go round and...
Show me the way to go home,
I'm tired and I really need a log
Oh I had a vindaloo about an hour ago
And I don't half need my bog,
My pants are becoming quite brown
And I've got a turtle's head
And you'll always hear me singing this song,
As I shit inside your bed
("all together now!")
Little Boy Blue has lost his poo
And doesn't know where it's gone
It went with his herd, they ran off with his turd,
It was brown and sticky and long.
Give it some slack, maybe it will come back,
Free it and it will return,
Or have a quick curry, and try not to worry,
But just the one or it might rather burn.
Little Miss Muffet
Sat on her toilet
Her knickers were down by her knees
She let out a moan
And then a big groan
And shat like she had some disease
Somewhere over the u-bend
Turds fly over the u-bend
Why then oh why can't I?
If happy little poo-turds fly,
Beyond the u-bend,
Why Oh Why
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