I’m sorry

But these waters are torrid.

Abhorrent.

I just can’t be bothered

With Sinead O’Connor.

Who cares?

She sells songs as her wares,

Shaves off her hair,

I don’t need to know which book she is on,

Which words have unearthed a faith in her strong

Enough to beat the nasties gone.

There’s nothing wrong with trying to stay alive.

If that’s her disguise, to find wise words

That don’t make her cry, then fine.

I don’t think that I can

Find peace in BibleBaghvadTorahQu’ran –

There’s a man jacking smack round the back of my yard.

It’s hard. And I know that by far I’m dancing with stars,

And compared to some bars mine are

High.

So I simply can’t stand by,

And have my guts and my eyes tortured by flies

Whose sole purpose in life is to feed

Off of me.

My emotions.

Using words that give notions of something absurd

Like fear.

Is the end near?

If Sinead has Turned then let’s prepare for the worst,

Nothing compares to a Catholic bubble being burst.

Apart from, first, let’s have a verse

About fucking kids.

What about a plucky piece

In The Sun about chucking these

Filthy greasy political clans,

Paedo Priests and bloody hands

Into the very same furnace as

Them Muslamic Rape Gangs

They talk of?

Then I’ll walk off,

Happy that they’ve sort of got a thought for

The big picture.

The grim spin cult

Leading our people

On insipid witch hunts.

The press is pumping poison muck

While the elite get richer and our lives suck.

I just want them to switch it up,

Mix the mud so it’s not just us

Who trip up and end up skint or fucked.

Or both.

A dick in our throat

And a bill in our hand

Before we’ve learnt to hold

Or stand.

By Shozz's EmporiumOfDark

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