Up Front
 
Being Smelly

Being Smelly
Mike

When I stop and think
About the way I stink
I feel I want to sing
About the way I ming,
And as I sing my song
About the way I pong
The world will know too well
About the way I smell.

So if you stop and sniff
At the way I niff
You'll want to turn your bum
At the way I hum
In high voice you'll shriek
At the way I reek
Or throw yourself off a cliff
At the way I whiff.

And even in a nice fresh sweater
You're not spared from my bodily fetor
A rancid tramp lying on a park bench
Could not compete with my foul stench
Before you see me, my telltale essence
Will make damn sure you're aware of my presence
Never expect any kind of satisfaction
From my putrid, unpleasant olfaction

You can get drunk upon whiskey and soda
But you'll not escape from my body odour
For my pungent armpits I'll happily vent
In order to distribute widely my scent.
Even the French (whether in Paris or Le Touquet)
Would turn up their noses at my noxious bouquet
They'd be confounded with no explanation
As to why a non-Frenchman has such a bad emanation.

So when I stop and think
About the way I stink
I realise I don't care
About polluting the air
And excited I shall get
At every drop of sweat
And I shall laugh from my belly
'Cos it's great is being smelly.

 
Born To Be A Cunt
Mike

Some men are born to greatness
Some have it thrust upon them.
Sad to say
It is my fate
That I'll not be among them.
For 'though I'm not deceitful
And 'though I am up front.
I'll never be a great man
'Cos I was born to be a cunt.

Some men perform heroic tasks
And help the weak and poor.
Some dedicate their worthy lives
'Gainst famine, death and war.
And there are those who tend the sick
Or work with violent lunatics
Or wash the gulls caught in a slick
And still come back for more.

But one man you will never see
Performing acts of charity
Is, yes,
You guessed it, me.
I could not partake in such a stunt
'Cos I was born to be a cunt.

I'd say you're completely barmy
If you join the Salvation Army,
And if I said I'm a Samaritan
Bet your arse I'm a charlatan.
I'd rather drive a big flash car
Or hang out in a sushi bar
And be abusive to the waiters
And insist they brought me mashed potaters,
And drink champagne from ladies slippers,
And throw my cash at buxom strippers,
And stagger home completely plastered
Disturbing my neighbours like a total bastard.

Oh yes, I could have been someone
I could've been a contender.
But best, I think, to live my life
A not-so-great pretender.
I could have been a winner
But I'm doomed to be a sinner
Because (pardon me for being blunt)
I was born to be a cunt.

Sometimes I've thought
I could have taught
Myself to find the best in me,
But I'll go no higher.
My one desire
Is to fulfill my destiny.
It is my lot
To sod you lot,
Not give a shit.
To hell with it.
The shame? Disgrace?
My arse, your face!
Why should I care
How well you fare?
For in my world of depravity
I'll slither further down its declavity
And tread on every worthless runt
'Cos I was born to be a cunt.

 
Beansprouts

Beansprouts
Mike

Not a bean
Not a sprout
So, what the fuck are they about?

Beansprouts.

 
Fuck
Mike

I think I'll write a poem called "Fuck"
I'll just keep going 'til I get stuck.
For, though I have nothing to say
I thought I'd write it anyway.
Feel free to bale out any time
It's your right; It ain't a crime
But trust me when I give this warning,
My dull poem could set you yawning.
But if you feel that you're content
To read a poem with no content
You're welcome in this ode with me
I'd even make a cup of tea
For you my reader if I could
But poetry's not quite what it should
Be and to do something that's physical
Would be pointless and derisible,
So excuse me while I waffle on
Instead of stopping to put the kettle on.
Did you see Brookside last night?
I thought it was a crock of shite.
Oh, if I were the ideal host
I'd cook you up a Sunday roast
But you'll not get a can of Fanta
As you read my puerile banter.
And it won't get any better
So you might want to go get a
Shot of whisky or a keg of
Ale or you might gnaw your leg off,
Poke your eyes out with a stick
Or pour petrol on your dick
And drop a burning match on it,
And then you'll scream out "Holy Shit!
What the fuck have I just done?
It started out a bit of fun,
But now this poem has just gone silly
And I've gone and burned my willy.
I'd better get a glass of water."
(Or you might say something shorter.)
Now, I don't know if you're a blamer
But I'd like to issue this disclaimer.
Because I couldn't make you a cup of tea
I'm not accepting responsibility
For personal injury or loss
Just because this poem is toss.
You read these lines at your own risk,
I don't care if you've slipped your disc.
I don't care if you've gone insane,
It's not this poem that's fried your brain.
I bet you've taken lots of drugs,
Dealt to you by skinhead thugs.
Well, we don't want your sort round here
You give our fucking dogs the fear
This poem was written for decent folk
Not brainless cunts who are high on coke
Or jack up 'til they're off their tits
And fall down in convulsive fits.
So, get the fuck out of my poem
Before I find you too annoying,
You scrounging willy burning prat,
You whinging parasitic twat,
I'll make you leave this poem, my friend,
By simply coming to the end.

 
 
April 2001
 



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