Edwin Saxton–The Poeming Genius
Poeming is for life. And pretentious cunts! And weirdos. I'm a bit of everything…
It might be hard,
For you to accept,
But I,
Am like,
The motherfuckin’,
Dwayne Johnson,
Of poeming.
I turn up,
Do stuff,
Then do other shit,
For ages.
Deal with it!
Bitch!
Rock the bells!
Rock the bellends!
Rock the balls!
Run DMC,
Ain’t got shit on me!
I rhymed and everything,
Just then.
Cow!
Tommy Two-Shits;
The man,
The myth,
The legend!
Skank!
Can you smeeeeeeeeelllllll,
What the Ed-Sax,
Is cookin’?
James McClean is a cunt!
Breathe in,
My fart.
Call me,
Sexy.
Can my friend,
Borrow your sock,
Sock, sock, sock,
Sock, sock, sock,
Sock?
Will you go,
With my mate?
A piece of shit.
Your mum’s,
Eating her,
Sister’s cunt,
And a Twix.
Hahaha.
Ha!
Ha-ha-haaaaaa!
Tee-hee-hee!
Gary Glitter.
Condoms are great,
For what they are,
But I’d rather,
Shoot my load,
In you…
…r sock.
Fresh out the gate,
A tired, old hag.
Something, something eight,
A dirty, fat slag.
Washing machines,
Last longer with,
Peans.
Not quite peas;
Not quite beans.
But something special,
In-betweens.
It is,
Fucking massive!
Squeezy,
Cheesy,
Peas.
Peans.
Ooooooooooooh!
Ooh–ooh–dr–dripping!
Now,
If you would indulge,
Me,
I,
Would like to direct,
Your attention,
Towards,
An alternative.
Tits.
Show us your wife’s,
Sock.
Peans.
Tits.
Creepy music,
And paranormal shit.
Yuri Gagarin’s,
Tits.
Can you show me the way,
To the residence of one,
Nigel Reo-Coker?
I have a (cocaine),
Package to deliver to,
Hymn.
Sorry, him.
Sweaty wanker!
Kamran.
The swollen bellend,
Of the transwoman,
Smells of brie,
And shame.
“Wemplormanaprixitle,”
Spinkley doth declare,
Pointing at Blomheim,
With shit,
Under his fingernail.
Jimmy Fingernail.
Fingernail.
Finger your dad’s jappy.
Fingernail.
Stupid cunt!
MURGATROYD!!!!
Personally, I believe,
Your mum should,
Know better.
Where once walked,
Warwick’s wellies,
Awash with Wilf’s wee.
And spunk.
Tit your nan up,
And finger her.
I was a good man,
Once.
Nonce.
Alphonse.
Attendonce.
Wrexham.
You’re still a shithole!
It doesn’t matter,
Does it?
We’re still,
All gonna die 🤷🏼♂️
XERXES!
Airdrieonians.
That’s the team for me.
Bitch!
“Where all da hoes at?”
Festus did holler.
Surrounded by pork swords.
This simply,
Would not do!
He came for that sweet,
Punched lasagne.
Cut off the foreskin.
It isn’t child abuse,
Or sexual abuse,
Coz religion n that,
Innit bruh?
Farts.
Trickle down economics.
Pissed mesen.
Layin’ some pipe.
What’cha gon’ do?
Bitch!
Desk fans in Market Harborough,
All sold to the,
Tall Nazi called Fritz.
The big question,
Of course,
Is as follows:
Who is the sexiest paedophile?
Lester Burton can swivel.
Gonorrhoea friction burns.
Wank me off,
With your arse.
Oi!
You there!
Empty your balls,
Up my bum,
Or I’ll tell everyone,
You’re a fucking faggot!
Tits.
Knockers.
And funbags.
Clam jouster.
Diphtheria,
Isn’t a laughing matter.
Raping minors?
Terrible, but…
Yes, why not?
Candyfloss funbags,
Hover over me.
Unilateral skylines,
Twist my soul.
Never did she,
Ever,
Yomp to Goose Green.
Farthings from heaven;
Evil speaks to me.
Retinas burn!
Retinas sear!
Evil has me,
Tonight and forever.
Armatrading;
Armatrading;
Arma-Arma-Arma-Armatrading.
Philestyrene tomcat fury,
Of Norwich and Biggleswade.
Wank us off,
Wi’ yer aaaaarse!
Bri-nylon pots and pans,
To boil your noodles.
A vat of piss,
To save the day.
Horses for courses.
Can I borrow,
Your porn mag?
Two-headed semen,
From a two-headed seaman,
Forced the royal knights,
Into purdah.
Jump!
Don’t ever stop.
Wit’ a little bit o’ this;
Little bit o’ that.
Jump!
Don’t ever stop.
Wit’ a little bit o’ this;
Little bit o’ that.
Little bit o’ fun;
Little bit o’ joke;
Little bit o’ drink;
Little bit o’ smoke.
Jump!
On da ones and twos…
Let’s go; let’s go!
Plagiarism.
Fuck you!
Bad guys,
Who like to,
Luton Plunder.
Mildred Hubble,
Had cunt stubble.
Ha—constable.
Constantinople.
It’s not milk;
It’s a sock,
You spastic!
While we’re on the subject,
Can I borrow,
Your sock?
Rip Torn.
Privet Hedges.
Four-legged spider,
Called Martin.
Exchange and Martin.
Come on!
Get it out!
What a way to go!
Speccy four-eyes!
Jamaica?
No, she’s too stubborn.
Genoa?
Not personally.
Russian?
Yes, or I’ll miss my bus.
Helium?
Close—he’s called Ian.
Are any of you dicks,
Even reading,
The shit I write?
Edwin Saxton–The Poeming Genius 