My mate’s got a girlfriend I’d flush down the U-bend
if I had the chance. She’d be killed at least.
This Ingrid or Astrid who makes my cock flaccid,
this moussed-cowlicked Oxford-voiced wildebeest
tries to impart me commands not to fart
in the house that I’m paying to rent,
and my mate’s caused a scuffle by forcing this buffalo
on me without my consent.
She wears all the right clothes and sneers down her wide nose
at people whose hearts are elsewhere.
She’d never be seen wearing yellow and green
at a demo in Parliament Square,
unless it was August. Her laughter is raucous
at those who don’t own a hair-dryer
and that bastard, my mate, he is forcing this fate
on yours truly against my desire.
She said, “London’s much nicer than Norwich, of course,”
and she said this on Radio Norwich.
Each sound that spurts out of her spouting great mouth
just makes me want to drown her in porridge.
Each sentence she renders goes up at the end
as though what she has said’s, like, a question?
And that bastard suggests I should give it a rest
and just swallow the toxic ingestion.
Her company tortures, she trumpets how gorgeous
she is, from her snotty fat hooter
and somehow my chum has the stomach to cum
inside her without wanting to shoot her.
She calls me ill-informed like she’s globally warmed
as a sage with a wardrobe of wreaths,
and that bastard, he dares to assume I should care
what his rancid old lady believes.
One day I just snapped, so I pinned down and wrapped
the bitch up in a Porky Pig outfit
(I needed a breather when finally I’d levered
her snorting great conk in the snout bit),
then tied her to a plane that was bound for Bahrain,
and when she got back she yelled, “Treason!
I was dressed up like swine in an Arabic clime,
when pink’s not in fashion this season!”
