The Smile Of The Unicorn
Hum Bad Ripple Wrappers

Hum Bad Ripple Wrappers

Luscious raspberry standard challengers
That challenged their way
Through the Milky Way
And ended up
. . . where?

So to the sacred chair
Where the frog wears a red cloth
And the unicorn smiles
And surrounded by ice cream
And crocodiles.
And a bell rings
Time for tea.
It will take me until quarter to three.
How I love to be by the sea.

And now as the ground rumbles
And a newt tips his straw feathered hat
And my chair creaks
And I feel like a wanton cleft.
My cheek concords into draftsmen
And my flowers go spongy.

Hail the magnificent ancient Lord
Of the Stekkipekkiwimpledrigsters.
And may you never be hit by low-flying aircraft.

Ode To Steve

I know a man, a man called Steve.
He wipes his bogeys on his sleeve,
And when his bogeys he has got
He sucks out all his runny snot,
And when his snot starts tasting bitter
Steve starts picking out his shitter.
Crusty bits he'll swallow down
Until his mouth turns autumn brown.
Yes, in his mouth is shit and snot
And crap and piss and grime and grot.
He smells like a rancid chippy
Because he is a sweaty hippy,
Ha ha ha.



Don't go near that dog
It's dangerous.
Don't go out in the fog
It's dangerous.
Don't fall off that log
It's dangerous.
Don't dare lick that frog
It's dangerous.

Don't go in the sea
It's dangerous.
Don't you stroke that bee
It's dangerous.
Don't drink too hot tea
It's dangerous.
Don't forget to wee
It's dangerous.

Don't shoot yourself in the head
It's dangerous.
Don't set fire to your bed
It's dangerous.
Don't pump yourself full of lead
It's dangerous.
Don't be dead
It's dangerous.

Don't forget to eat
It's dangerous.
Don't smash up your feet
It's dangerous.
Don't eat rancid meat
It's dangerous.
And don't talk to anyone called Pete
It's a silly name.



Mrs. Flippit
Sold her whippet
To a man called Dan.
He sliced it thin
And put it in
A pan.

Happy Chirping Sparrows

Happy chirping sparrows
That live up in the trees
Are at their most peculiar
When you show to them your knees.
Usually they're normal,
They're feathered and they're grey,
But when you get your knees out
They'll never fly away.

They start off chirping madly
And flapping quite a lot,
And then they get warmer,
In fact hot.
They cook just like a pan of chips
Until they're nicely done,
And when you put your knees away
They die and go to heaven.

The moral of this story
Is simple but it's true:
Don't drink or take drugs mate
Or you might end up writing shite like this too
About poo
And that wouldn't do.
I'd have to sue.


Down in the valley
Where the flowers did grow
There lived a young lassy
Called Donald Farquarr-Bassinger III (Sir).



Death did
Come to me
In the still of the night
And took me
Into its depth.

I'm better now . . .

May 1996

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