Category: Poetry

Poetry Corner – The Tofu-eating Wokerati

Who ended the career of the great Todd Carty?
Who forced us to withdraw the sweet blue Smartie?
While you were all grieving, who forced us to party?
The tofu-eating wokerati.

Who removed the toxic inks from Sharpies?
Who’s the modern Senator Joseph McCarthy?
Who forces us to take cash from the oligarchy?
The tofu-eating wokerati.

Who assassinated Russell Harty?
Who said you can’t drive after a bottle of Bacardi?
Who is the real Professor James Moriarty?
The tofu-eating wokerati.

Poetry Corner – mCAT

My cats are twats.
A duo of dickheads,
A pair of prize pillocks,
A brace of bellends.
My cats are twats.

My cats are twats.
A couple of cockknockers,
The tosser twosome,
Prat partners.
My cats are twats.

My cats are twats.
Toolboxes in tandem,
The fabulous furry fuckhead fraternity,
A deuce of doofuses.
My cats are twats.

Poetry Corner: Jeff

People pissing in bottles and jars
So you can ride your white cock to the stars.

Destroyed our high street, ruined the place,
So you can ride your white cock into space.

This is the end game? When there’s no more tax to avoid,
You ride your white cock to the void.

Added nothing to understanding our sense of place.
It’s just you in your white cock in space.

Poetry Corner: snip

Very nice lady matched me online
And we got to chatting. We
Spoke online all day, all night until,
Eventually, I plucked up the courage to ask her out. We met up, had a
Couple of drinks, talked and
Talked for hours. It was great. Wind it
On a couple of years, we’re getting married, but neither of us want
More kids. Anyway, how’s
Your day going?

Poetry Corner: Shove it

Committing Britain to austerity in perpetuity
For the sake of an ideology
You didn’t agree with until recently.
Cower to those with power,
beg for crumbs thrown from ivory towers.
Cut our throats to beggar the European bloc.
Sod ‘em off but to us they’ll flock… 
For what? innovative jam and a war-time obsession?
For ten German bombers and twisted history lessons?
Isolated backward island built on phoney nostalgia,
A failed idea of exceptionalism
Of Anglo-supremacism.
No conviction.
Your conviction is fiction.
You project yourself as ready, willing and able
By parroting the myth of being strong and stable.
Your profession of stability masks your obvious inability.
Fathead Boris Walter Mitty in high office sitting pretty.
Scruffy twat blue, go brush your hair,
Use general taxation to hide an affair.
Reward for previous misdemeanours
Is to destroy our rights on behalf of the leavers.
Line well-lined pockets is your one mission,
Let centenarians fund basic provision,
Let your mates set the rates,
The proles can’t even eat cake,
Pockets emptied by your mates on the take.
Call you out, you cry “uncivil debate!”

Well you can shove that up your arse.

Poetry Corner: More In Common

One I started ages back after the murder of Jo Cox MP. Still relevant, sadly.

I do not give you permission to divide my community.
You will not turn me against my neighbour.
No-one can instil fear of the other in me
On the basis that they’re foreign.
We will always have more in common.

You will not make statements on my behalf
Simply because our skin is of similar hue.
You will not assume I agree with you on the same basis.
Your beliefs are utterly rotten.
We will always have more in common.

And I say this to you
From the very heart of my bottom;
We will always have more in common.

Poetry corner: The Notts County Linesman

I have a lot of sympathy for linesmen. Assistant referees my arse though. Especially at non-league level where the voices are easier to pick out and, as opposed to a wall of sound, I imagine harder to blot out. They shuffle sideways through mud, get piss wet through and for what? £40 and their mileage? Anyway, this.

I am the linesman at Notts County
And I wave the yellow flag
I hear all the abuse from the Derek Pavis stand.
I hear you calling me a bastard
Because your striker was offside.
But the Notts County linesman’s still running the line.

I get pelters for my fitness,
I hear you calling me big-boned.
I passed the bleep and fat tests I will have you know.
I hear you calling me a wanker
Cos your left-back’s a niggly shite.
But the Notts County linesman’s still running the line.

I barely cover my expenses,
I get just 40p a mile,
But the Notts County linesman’s still running the line.