Like the stunned panicking Wobblermen
dancing in the garden of strife
I am the walking bollock
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,
"I owe you nothing" says the danger.
David McCullochs swoon around
the lifeless corpse of impatience,
crying "Debra! Debra!"