Like the stunned panicking Wobblermen
dancing in the garden of strife
I am the walking bollock
of inconsequence
My flats are plain and my plains are flat
yet sauce drips from the downs
(the ups, the downs)
as I trifle through this piss-take of
poetry, a juicy melon betwixt my thighs,
dripping yelps
"I owe you nothing" says the danger.
David McCullochs swoon around
the lifeless corpse of impatience,
crying "Debra! Debra!"
Mail me,
tell me,
kill me,
oh Debra.
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