25 -Get Off My Road!

Poem number 25
.
Get Off My Road!
.
Why’d you need a car that big
You tit, you fucking twat?
Why’d you need a car that big
You tit, just tell me that.
Why’d you need a car so big
It blocks my view ahead?
I’d like to see the traffic lights
And know if they are red
I’d like to see the roundabout
And know if it is clear,
Why’s your car so fucking big
And why’s it fucking here?
Why’d you need a car that big
On roads this fucking small?
You really are a mighty twat
You’ve really got some gall.
Why’d you need a car that big
That tall that long that fat?
Why’d you need a car that big
You tit, you fucking twat.

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79 – Indicate, You Bastard

Poem number 79
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Indicate, You Bastard
.
Indicate, you bastard
Hit the lever with your hand
The rest of us need warning
Of the turn that you’ve got planned.
Don’t simply spin the steering wheel
And pray no bugger’s there,
Indicate you bastard
Make the rest of us aware.
Indicate, you bastard
I implore you! I insist!
Indicate you bastard
Or I’ll shout, and shake my fist.
(Grrrr)

130 – Turdface

Poem number 130
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Turdface

Bugger off you rancid fart
Your face is made of dough
Your ears are shrivelled, sweaty
And I really wish you’d go
If I’d wanted life insurance
I’d have purchased it online
Not bought it off the doorstep
From a tramp who smells of wine,
Go away. Get out. Piss off
And that’s my final word –
Sell your bollocks somewhere else
You nauseating turd.

157 – Donald Trump’s A Fuckwit

Poem number 157
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Donald Trump’s A Fuckwit
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Donald Trump’s a fuckwit
He has but half a mind
His head is full of bullshit
Of the total fuckwit kind
He’s such a fucking fuckwit
But he’ll probably win the race
And sit there in the White House
With his stupid fuckwit face
Donald you’re a fuckwit
And you’ll always be the same
Such a fucking fuckwit
Fuckwit Donald, that’s your name.

163 – I Hate My Cat

Poem number 163
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I Hate My Cat
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The cat just stole my good minced beef
He nicked it out the bowl,
I’m going to kick him in the teeth
And stuff him down a hole.
Fuck the RSPCA –
He’s going to get a punch,
No bastard cat will get away
With stealing all my lunch.
He’s my cat, but now he is my foe
Our friendship’s in the past
And it’s he that struck the killer blow
My stealing my repast
So fuck off cat, and leave no trace
Fuck off and live elsewhere
Before I punch you in the face
And belt you with a chair.

169 – Litter Mug

Poem number 169
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Litter Mug
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The cat tray’s full of shit again
And massive clumps of wee
Some bugger’s got to clean it
And that bugger’s always me.
.
The neighbours feed them caviar
With full cream milk on tap
But it’s never them, just always me
That has to clean the crap.
.
I guess I’m just the litter mug
The neighbours have it right
They rent the cat in daytime
Then just kick it out at night.
.
Why pay for vets and bedding
Or to have a pet insured –
There’s no need to buy a kitty cat
When Muggins lives next door.

208 – Doing A Runner

Poem number 208
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Doing A Runner
.
Farewell then, all you idle folk
Farewell, I raise a glass
To your vehement refusal
To get off your flabby arse
To your utter fucking laziness
Your total lack of drive
To your monumental lie-ins
Where you sleep from 9 to 5
To your sugar puffs and B&H
Pot Noodles by the score
To your unwashed vests and household pests
And boarded-up back door
And I raise a glass to you, you twats
To you and all your friends
‘Cause I’m leaving on the nightbus
Doing 90 round the bends
And I won’t be back, I won’t be back
I won’t be back, not me
Please God I won’t be back again
For all of you to see
I’m escaping, I’m escaping
I can do it, I can cope
I can do it, I’m escaping
And I won’t be back. I hope.

228 – Fan Letter

Poem number 228
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Fan Letter
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I hate your hair
I hate your nose
I hate your ears
I hate your toes
I hate your feet
I hate your skin
I hate your arms
I hate your chin
I hate your legs
I hate your thighs
I hate your chest
I hate your eyes
I hate your wee
I hate your poo
I hate your sick
I hate your you.

232 – Bloody Word!

Poem number 232
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Bloody Word!
.
I hate the sight of MS Word
And all its format woes
It changes fonts and margins
In my rhymes and in my prose.
There is no earthly reason
Why such problems should survive
In a program that’s been stapled
To our desks since ’95 –
You would think that in the 20 years
Or so since Windows landed
They’d have smoothed out all the wrinkles
And it wouldn’t leave you stranded
With a paragraph that’s right aligned
With superscript turned on
Just above a centred heading
With the middle letters gone
It’s a bastard, it’s a total git
But sadly it’s default
So I guess we’re simply lumbered
With no way to call a halt
To the automatic editing
The margins or the views
It’s annoyingly essential
Though it’s not the one we’d choose.