Sushi On The Menu
Dining At The 'Y'

Dining At The 'Y'

I'm dining at the 'Y' tonight
There's sushi on the menu.
I don't just lick my lips
When I'm at my favourite venue.
It's up the Salmon Canyon
On the edge of Tuna Town
It's a place I'm always welcome
And I'd never let it down.

A tasty bit of clam I like;
It really perks me up,
And nibbling on the olive whilst drinking
From the furry cup.
The special vinaigrette that pours
Upon the luscious lettuce
Never leaves me any doubt
About what my best bet is.

I went there just a week ago
But had a bad surprise
All was soused in ketchup
And it wasn't very nice
Tonight I'm told it's good and clean
And for the second course
I'll bring along my special brand
Of salted tartare sauce.

So if you're feeling peckish
And you want a bit of muffin
Or a tasty bit of kipper
I will tell you this for nothing.
The only place to go to if you
Want some hairy pie
Is up the Velcro Triangle -
Go dining at the 'Y'.

Great Fat Hairy Arseholes

Great Fat Hairy Arseholes

Great fat hairy arseholes looming in my face
They're everywhere I go and I think it's a disgrace.
No longer can I enjoy a nice stroll in the park
As people thrust their big fat arses at me for a lark.
And walking down the high street no longer gives me joy
For perhaps a dozen arses will invariably annoy.
I have to close the curtains now for at my window pane
Will be pressed a row of arses even in the pouring rain.

And every single arsehole that does plague me in this way
Has got to be at least as fat as that of Robin Day
And each one is as hairy as a vacuum cleaner bag
And wrinkly as a urine-stained octogenarian hag.
It wouldn't be so bad if they were cute and pert and pretty,
But all these arses that I get are fat and gross and shitty,
And most of them have hideous spots and boils and lumps and warts
And sores and piles and cankerous growths. I really get all sorts.

Who the hell do they think they are, these people with fat arses,
Who feel they have to thrust their butts at me, an innocent passer?
Can't they go and take their bums, find something else to do,
Instead of making me observe the place from which they poo?
So, if you've got a fat arse and you see me in the street,
Just ignore me, walk right passed, you'll be doing me a treat.
But if you feel a huge desire to partake in this farce,
You can take your great fat, hairy arse and stick it up your arse.

The Secret Life Of The Wheat Crunchie

The Secret Life Of The Wheat Crunchie

I am a Wheat Crunchie
Made by Golden Wonder.
Life for me is OK right now,
Since I was torn asunder.

I lie here in a sealed up bag
Where I await my fate
To be savagely devoured
Or expire my sell-by date.

It's ironic that I'm bacon flavour,
('though it gives me no joy),
For once I was the foreskin
Of a little Jewish boy.

Then sold part of a job lot
With many more like me
I was freighted to the fateful
Golden Wonder factory

Then plunged in boiling oil
Until I went all brittle
And swollen like a painful sprain;
No longer soft and little.

Then sealed up in a plastic bag
And sent to Sainsburys
Where mothers queue at checkouts
And their children I'm to tease.

"Oo, mummy, look! Wheat Crunchies!"
I hear a little boy,
And judging by his accent
You can bet he's not a goy.

"You wicked boy!" his mother cried,
"You know this snack's no good.
It's from a beast with cloven hoof
That does not chew the cud."

But as the mother turned to pay,
The boy's hand grabbed my packet.
And deftly as a gull in flight
He slipped it in his pocket*. (*Assonance!)

Then, home alone, safe in his room
He opened up my prison
And what familiar, homely sights
Befell upon my vision.

For in this place, this very boy
Had been attached to me,
And, oh, what games we used to play
When no one else could see.

I always knew we'd reunite
I'd had it on a hunch.
Now, here we are. I've made it home!
Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch ...

February - April 2000

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