Five, Four, Three, Two—John

Wispy beard of inglenook;
Drowned in sorrowful glances.
A bike from Halfords,
Got a puncture.
For fuck’s sake!

Up to your elbow,
In cunt juice.

Get the gist.
Have you got it?
Nice tits.
Finger me,
With your cock.

Just because,
I get bummed a lot,
Off men,
Doesn’t mean I’m,
A fudge packer.

Ha-weeeeeeeee!
Gimp.

Season your chips,
With dried shit flakes.
Shit with sugar on.
A haddock.

An anvil.
A pair of nknkinckers.
Dyslexic cunt!
Pubes.

Player One continue?
Or chicken out,
Like the chicken shit,
We all know you are?
Purrit in th’laaaaarrrrder!

Larder.

Larder.

The Giraffe’s Libido–Just Nippin’ To t’Shøp

Asinine.
That’s a big word.
Turd.
Blurred.
John Heard.
He’s dead,
But that’s not funny.
Haha.

Jap’s eye,
With sand.
You bruised my,
Front bottom,
With your chin.

Ombudsman.
Another big word.
How many more,
Shall I blurt?
Shirt.
Flirt.
John Hurt.
He’s dead too.
*Snickers*

Dropkick.
Wingle-wongle-wangle.

John.