The French
Kate & Mike

Part 2



Kate:   Look you fucking piece of shit,
Don't be so damned defensive,
It's not like ALL my writing is
Obscene or that offensive.
The French are just fair game is all,
They smell and spit and curse,
So don't think that I'm being mean,
It really could be worse.

I could have said the French are cunts,
And riddled with foul vermin,
I could have said they were the same,
As any bloke that's German,
I could have said they suck the shit
From out a scabby rim,
But I didn't 'cos I'm NICE like that,
My words are not that grim.

So take your words of hate and crap,
And shove them up your shitter,
I will not care because I know
That you're just feeling bitter.
You LOVE it when I say rude stuff,
You know deep down it's true,
And if it's not, well never mind,
Fuck off. And bugger you.

Mike:   Well, screw you too, you fucked up slag,
You rancid minging tart.
All you do is spew foul words,
How can you call that art?
It isn't big, it isn't clever,
It isn't even funny.
Don't think that it will impress
Or earn you any money.

All your poems are foul and gross
And riddled with obscenities.
I tell you girl I'm getting fucked off
By your crap profanities.
They made you look a total cunt,
They make my shit hang sideways.
I'd make you eat the fucking lot
If I could have things my way.

So shut your cunting whinging gob
And cut out all the crap.
You're nothing but a vile old hag
With fishy smelling flaps.
You pick the lice from out your minge
And put them in your tea.
'Cos otherwise you'd only have
A cup of stale old pee.

Kate:   Oh shut your rancid reptile gob,
Its sound offends my ear.
You don't know what you're on about,
I'm afraid that's very clear.
You of all should know by now,
You shouldn't make me mad,
Or else your life could start to get
Really really bad.

I'll get the train and hunt you down,
I'll find out where you work,
And somewhere in the building I
Will sit and wait and lurk,
And watch you with my eyes of steel
Until the time is right,
When you work late, all on your own,
One dark and stormy night.

And from the shadows I will jump,
And give a shrieking yell,
And you will think Satan himself,
Has appeared from firey Hell.
You'll drop down on your bended knee
And beg me to be saved,
But I'll just laugh and laugh and laugh,
Because I'm so depraved.

I'll stick some Blu-tak on your nose,
Put staples in your shirt,
And whack you with your mouse mat 'til
It starts to really hurt.
I'll take your posh computer,
And I'll stab it with a pen,
And when I'm done I'll bloody well
Just do it all again.

I'll chase you round the office,
And I'll call you "twat" and "knob",
And THEN you'll know what nasty things
Can come out of my gob.
I'll pull my tongue out rudely,
Blow raspberries in your tea,
So you'd better say you're sorry,
Or in London I will be.

 
The French
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