Thursday, 21 May 2009


It’s all tits to the pump as
He can’t get a grip on a nipple
And we’re shipping hands;
I had to cough up a cup full
Myself as his mother was
Swamped with demand.
There’s a supplement from
A box that once mixed
Has the texture of piss
And isn’t sliding down like
The draught stuff that’s worth
More than gold dust should,
And it’s a small kitchen that
Fills up quickly and the
Dishes don’t make it easier:
Switching positions between
Their misuse and their
Willingness to please us,
While the front door keeps
Begging us all to hold
Firm as attackers bang it
Asking after an audience
With the new king and forcing
Backyard smokers to damn it,
But the hounds prowl the
Foreground and ensure only
The well known are allowed,
Giving a few vital seconds to
Settle a full tum, empty a bum
And lash all our loose breasts down.

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