Fifth batch of proper manly poems.

TRAIN #3

She's chatting matters vile,
I'm sitting spitting bile.
I become insanely riled
Every time she hits redial.
Retells her night out on the tiles
For mile after fucking mile.
And aye okay, you've made a pile
But money can't buy class or style.
Can you shut your yap a while?
Get off your bastard mobile.

TRAIN #4

He's shouting at a phone
Like he was all alone.
A collective carriage groan
As he dominates the zone.
There's bother back at home,
His Mrs has a moan.
How I wish that I could roam
Far from him and his ringtone,
Coz my head's completely blown.
Get off the fucking dog and bone.

Fourth batch of proper manly poems.

KNOW YOUR ENEMY WELL.

You can feel the frustration,
Self-righteous indignation.
In double-dodgy backstreet bars,
Arseholes in conversation:

They keep coming over,
They think they're in clover
As soon as they set eyes upon
The white cliffs of Dover.

It's liberals to blame,
With their middle-class shame.
They say 'come to our country
And stick in a claim.'

But we're not gunna take it
While immigrants make it.
They steal our jobs and giros.
They're not needy, they fake it.

We're the voice of white defiance,
We won't suffer in silence.
Why waste time with reason
When you can use violence?

While you're welcome to choose,
Fuck you if you share those views.
You'll end up doing time for race hate crime,
I hope you get your arse abused.

You should know your enemy well,
Don't let them drag you down to hell.
So I say fuck the BNP
And fuck the EDL.

FIVE-AND-TWENTY WINTERS.

We were childhood sweethearts,
Each other's teenage crushes.
Frolicking round the city's parks
And fucking in the bushes.

Mind, I had no concept of true love
Back when I was nineteen,
I just wanted to get my dick wet
And snort amphetamines.

But there was always something nagging
And I never really sussed.
Those strange sensations of elation,
I put down to speed and booze and lust.

And as I drifted through the decades
That came and went so fast,
I'd think about that grey-eyed girl
And the good times that had passed.

Then after five-and-twenty winters
I saw her face again.
She still smiles like a filthy crocodile,
I still melt when she says my name.

I've got no use for money,
Won't make me a better person.
I'm rich beyond my wildest dreams,
In love with Joanne McPherson.

Third batch of proper manly poems.

DEATH AND OTHER HASSLES.

Every few months or so,
(But at least once each year)
I meet with friends from way back when
And we hug and bite back tears.

One of us in a wooden box,
All the others gathered round.
And then we either burn that box
Or we put it underground.

Then we reminisce and take the piss
And raise a glass or two
To the newly dead departed
At their final leaving do.

Celebrate what made 'em great,
Forget they could be a twat.
It's not time for the axe to grind;
We'll rise above all that.

I don't believe in heaven
And I can't conceive a hell.
There's no angels, there's no demons,
Just this brittle human shell.

You can waste your life
Scared of your death
But it won't help you avoid it.
Or you can seize each day,
And, come what may,
You can say that you enjoyed it.

One day, I'll be in that box,
Coz we're all gonna die.
And if you turn up to wave me off,
Wear something smart and cry.


WHAT THE DICKENS?

I used to be out all night, out of my head
And completely unemployable.
Now I stay home and I say things like
"That Dickens documentary was rather enjoyable."

I always thought I would live fast, die young,
Like some rock'n'roll tornado.
Now I'm 46, got a dodgy hip
And a touch of arthritis ( or maybe lumbago).

And though I kid myself that I'm still punk rock,
All wild at heart and reckless,
Did Sid and Nancy worry about fibre, do you think?
Did it screw their day if they missed breakfast?

And while I'm horrified by this expanding girth
Since I gave up them narcotics,
At least I'm not grey, and hey anyway,
These tiny tits are quite erotic.

So if I've learnt one thing from this middle age,
It's that all of us get fatter.
But my brain's alright and I can still still spout shite,
And in the end, man, that's all that's ever mattered.