23rd December 2006, 01:58
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#47 (permalink)
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First Team Sub
Join Date: Nov 2001
Posts: 5,200
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Plech, you've surpassed yourself.
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“Boa tarde,” said the nauseating link-man,
(Which means ‘Good evening’, not ‘The snake’s a spastic’);
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They trooped back in, lamenting, “Just our luck,
The Sign’s been on the roof the whole time! Shit!
Damn it, bloody hell, this sodding sucks,
Cocking wanking frigging twatting tit;
Cunting arses, bollocks, bugger, fuck,
Pissing bastard quimflaps, cockbiscuit…”
Thus did the gang express their sad regrets,
Like MacEnroe, in traffic, with Tourettes.
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Pissing bastard quimflaps, cockbiscuit!
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O whitest Snow, how black you are at heart!
(That’s racist); for you make the dreary world
A blank new canvass, primed for vibrant art,
A virgin future, flawlessly unfurled;
A second chance at childhood! A fresh start!
But then you melt, and back our souls are hurled
To jobs and duties, borrowings and spendings,
And council-tax, and shopping-lists, and endings.
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I think Lord Byron himself might have been proud of this. He was a gay fecker after all.
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When I was just a tiny boy, my mum
Once took me up a hill, upon a sledge;
So far, so good. She then did something dumb,
And left me free, to slide over the edge;
I slammed into a tree, and broke my thumb -
I’m fortunate I wasn’t left a veg;
Why did she leave me? So that she could natter
To some daft bint, re shit that doesn’t matter.
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Now you're getting all autobiographical. I can understand your angst. What with being almost murdered by your mother and having part of your knob chopped off.
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Creamed David Seaman, as a kind of pun
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Yuletide greetings to you and yours and a suggestion for a New Year's Resolution - you should be getting paid for this stuff! |
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