Lovely Things To Eat
 
God Bless The Little Sparrows

God Bless The Little Sparrows
Kate

God bless the little sparrows,
That chirp between the boughs
And fly around in flocks so fine
And sit upon the cows

Their beaks ajar with wonder,
They cock their heads with pride
And upon a sea of sun and rain
With graceful sweeps they glide.

God bless the little ditties
They sing by day and night
God bless those little sparrows!
Sparrows are alright.

 
Kumquat Catastrophe

Kumquat Catastrophe
Kate

Juggle juggle in the air
See how long he keeps them there!
Up and higher, out of sight,
I hear he does it day and night!

The kumquat juggler, Kumquat Steve,
Produced more kumquats from his sleeve,
And threw them up into the air,
And juggled them round from here to there.

And as the people stared, aghast,
Thinking each would be his last,
Another he would make appear,
And juggle it from there to here.

A hundred kumquats, maybe more!
The audience was hushed with awe,
To see the kumquats flying higher,
Without the need of rope or wire!

Up and off those kumquats sped,
Way up above the juggler's head,
A thousand kumquats, maybe more,
Did, menacingly, sweep and soar.

The crowd of people turned to run,
But alas! Their goose was done,
The kumquats hit them on the head,
And pretty quickly most were dead.

The juggler gasped "What have I done?"
And turned around, as if to run.
But then the final bad kumquat,
Fell from the sky and squashed him flat.

So there they lay,
And moaned and grunted.
A kumquat catastrophe.
Totally cunted.

 
Git
Kate

The night was dark and damp with rain,
The wind blew loud and cold,
A man came limping down the lane,
Dirty, thin and old.

His shoes were gone, his coat was worn,
His face was wet with tears,
His trousers, which were stained and torn,
Had not been changed for years.

Beneath his strides so black with grime,
His nasty pants did sit,
They'd not been washed for quite some time,
And so were full of shit.

The shit was soft, despite the cold,
It dribbled down his legs,
It smelled like gone-off sausage rolls,
Combined with rancid eggs.

The shit it splashed upon the street,
And mingled with the rain,
The man was starving - what could he eat?
He really wasn't sane.

He pulled his trousers round his knees,
And scooped himself a treat,
And thought of chicken, cake and cheese,
And lovely things to eat.

He had his fill and soon was off,
But then he gave a frightful cough,
And puked his guts up well and true,
Vomiting his own stale poo,
You might think that this tale's depraved,
But it does get worse than this I'm 'fraid,
For as he looked down at his chunder,
He begun once more to feel strange hunger,
And so he ate his puked up shit,
What a mad, mad, mad old git.

 
Yorkshire Day
Kate

Sing, rejoice! Be glad! Be gay!
Because today is Yorkshire Day!
Sing, Rejoice! Be glad! Ok...
But don't be gay in Yorkshire.
They don't like those queer sort in these here parts.

Go to London!
Go to Brighton!
If you're queer and prone to frighten.
Go to Sydney!
Go to 'dam,
If you like another man's spam,
But if you like it long and brown,
Don't live in a Yorkshire town,
They like their gardens gardened down,
Not uphill, it makes them frown.

So when you're walking down a street,
Wearing gay shoes on your feet,
Look around - see how they stare!
Then get the fuck out of there,
Because unless you're manly and like pork pies
And do not fancy other guys
The Yorkshire men will kick you in
And put you in a wheelie bin.

Today indeed is Yorkshire day,
but not for you if you are gay,
That would simply be too crappy,
Especially if you're gay as in 'happy'.
That would never do. They will not like you.
They think that you are queer
If you refuse to have their cocks in your beer.

So sing hip hip hooray!
Today is Yorkshire day!
So buy some Yorkshire pudding,
Some boiled sweets,
Some pickled eggs,
Some tripe, nicely ripe,
Black pudd is rather good,
A cloth cap and a whippet -
All of these are OK...

Just don't be gay.

 
Ode On Snow

Ode On Snow
Kate

The snow is falling from the sky
the day is cold and shitty
some say it's pleasing to the eye
But I don't think it's pretty.
As children smile to see it land
I moan and rant and hate it
I'd like to take it in my hand
And through a grater, grate it.
I'd like to put it in a fire
And see it disappearing
Or hang it from a big live wire
And see it melting; smearing.
I hate the snow, it makes me sick
It's cold and is no fun
I long to take a pointy stick
And poke it up its bum.
I hate it, as it falls and falls,
And makes the street turn whiter
I'll take each snowman by the balls,
And melt them with my lighter.

 
 
March 2001
 



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