Rubbish Swears

I facked, I ficked, I fecked, I fwcked,
Your mother in her bed.
If you don’t shut your focking mouth,
I’ll fyck your Dad instead.

Fanny

Someone downstairs has been washing their fanny,
Washing their quim in the sink.
Perhaps, though, they weren’t really washing their fanny;
Maybe it needed a drink.

I’ve never considered a great thirsty fanny,
All droughty and yearning for wet.
But what if the fanny belongs to my nanny?
A thought I would rather forget.

Sometimes I dream of a big hairy fanny,
Maw-like and gaping and dry.
Though often my dreams are disturbed by my screams,
As its teeth sink right into my thigh.

Saddening Day

It is make it all wet eye that I am make write for first one on it this website, and it bring bad announce from my head.

Goodbye Metal Hat Woman

Moller Sugden who is my much favourite act-woman, have be dead.

When I am first come to England, my friend James tell me “watch it this television with it the mother (I am live at the house of James) to make distract, so I can make joy to a girl of love”. It television film called Are You Serving Gay? with white hair gay man and Moller Sugden.

She is make vaginal joke all the time which is not be funny to me. I am not find it vagina amuse, since the sister of me is die from vaginal worms.

I hope Moller Sugden is not die like my sister. I think she is go sleep quiet to her bed and say to her family “good night i might not be wake in a morning”.

Good night Moller Sugden from Martin, who is like you.

Ants, the Bastard Curse of the Gardener.

I’m not a gardener, really. I just talk about it a lot, as I am in the process of reclaiming a garden from the wild. From a waist-high grassy wasteland, I’ve strimmed and dug and cleared, and slowy it’s  getting better.

Except for the ants.

Heard about the mega-colony? Look here. This is what I’m faced with in my garden. A collection of inter-connected nests that no amount of ant powder, boiling water, or spunk will kill.

I Wish I Didn’t Piss Myself

I wish I didn’t piss myself at least 8 times a day,
I cannot feel it coming and it causes me dismay.
My bladder is so very numb, just like my legs and cock -
The first I know about the piss is when it wets my sock.

The folk in work, they laugh at me, and call me Simon Damp,
I sit with bowed head at my desk, reeking like a tramp.
I went to see the doctor and he said knew no cure;
He gave me towelling underpants and told me to endure.

Sophie had a Pylon

Sophie had a pylon, it often made her grunt.
The reason for the grunting – she kept it up her cunt.

Dirty Cat

Another old poem. Not very good.

Dirty Cat

A cat dark and hairy, and not very bright,
Had eaten two mice on a cold winter’s night;
The mice had diseases, and made the cat ill,
He lay there ’til morning, poorly and chill.
Then up came the mice and some other stuff too,
A condom, a high heel and bits of dried poo.
The vomit, it poured from the cat like a stream,
So jellied and dense that the cat couldn’t scream.

The gushing of sick was now at an end,
The cat was exhausted but soon on the mend.
He needed a drink, was about to be gone,
When his eyes saw the mess he had made on the lawn.

The puke was all gleaming and sexy and nice,
As long as you looked past the bones from the mice.
And deep in his innards the cat felt a tingle,
For two years this cat had been lonely and single.

The cat looked around, there was no one to see,
He slunk to the sick and he sniffed it with glee.
A paw tapped the quivering clump of his sick,
The cat gave a purr and then out came his prick.

He mounted his sick, ignoring the smell,
And into the mess went his cock, all a-swell;
Ignoring the bones and the shoe and the poo,
The cat gave a thrust and was lost to the goo.

He humped it and growled and he humped it some more,
The cat fucked the sick that he’d spewed on the floor,
He didn’t see sick, just a dirty cat whore,
And out came his juice and our cat gave a roar.

A roar of delight or a roar of disgust?
Surely of pleasure, lost to his lust,
His seed emptied out and it mixed with the sick,
His fur was all matted and dirty and slick.

He came to his senses – oh, what had he done?
He’d mated with sick on the grass, in the sun.

Dave, The Ship, and the Smiling Cock

An poem of mine from 2005 what I found on that internet. The title came from Sean Thomasson, the words belong to me.

Dave, The Ship, and the Smiling Cock.

A lad called Dave, one glorious morn,
Decided to take to the sea.
He packed up a lunch and the next morning’s brunch,
And a lump of some rancid old brie.

Off young Dave walked, right down to the docks,
To hire for his travels a ship.
But none could he find, all far too refined,
For the pennies he kept by his hip.

Until an old sailor, so grizzled and grey,
Cried out, “Here’s a ship for you, lad!
“She needs some affection and love and attention,
“I’ll give her to ye, cause I’m mad!”

Dave climbed aboard, the ship was a mess,
But seven days work saw her fixed.
Before very long, Dave felt he belonged,
Though ‘bout sailing his feelings were mixed.

“Don’t worry,” a voice said, scaring our lad,
“I’ll help you when off we both float.”
And Dave smiled a smile, for after a while,
He knew that the voice was his boat.

The two of them sailed far off into the west
They sought high adventure and loot.
But sometimes they heard, from voices fear-slurred,
A monster lurked just down their route.

This monster it seemed was a terrible beast,
Dark pink and as hard as a rock.
And said in hushed tones, at its feet lay two stones;
This monster, they hissed, was a cock.

Dave and the ship, onward they sailed,
Determined to slay this huge dick.
When on it they came, it roared out in pain,
For Dave had been sailing too quick.

“Oh why,” roared the cock, “Do you torment me so?”
“I just want to live here in peace!”
“I’m sorry,” said Dave, now feeling quite brave,
For the penis looked quite like his priest.

The monster looked down, now not quite so fierce,
“I’m sorry I shouted,” he roared.
And then from his eye, he started to cry,
Fat tears white and stringy down-poured.

“I hate to offend,” said our brave lad Dave,
“We heard that you’d eaten some ships.”
“I wouldn’t eat that,” said the cock, “I’m not fat,”
“I’d rather eat fishes and chips.”

So Dave and his ship bid adieu to the cock,
Who smiled as he waved them goodbye.
The moral right here, whilst awfully queer
Is: cocks can be terribly shy.

Welcome back.

Yes, it’s true. Martin and I are back again, with what was once called “the worst poetry blog I have ever had the misfortune to visit”. And, I’m afraid to say, the poetry hasn’t improved. In fact, it’s so bad, the poetry hasn’t even been written yet.

Well, one poem has. I wrote one dedicated to the work I did in the garden the other day.

Working in the Garden.
I did some work in garden,
I did the work quite good.
I cleaned up all the garden,
I did all that I could.

I cleared out all the rubbish,
The back door works again.
Discovered several slo-worms,
And Jack cleaned out the drain.

I strimmed the waist-high grasses,
With a strimmer from Em’s dad.
And now we have a garden,
Oh, Emma is so glad.

But then we found three lumpy bits,
And they were full of ants.
I knew just how to kill them;
I first removed my pants.

For when I was a nipper,
My daddy said to me:
“Son, to kill the insects,
You really don’t need wee.”

“Just get your little willy,
and rub it like a stick.
And when it gets all stiff and warm,
You rub it extra quick.”

So on my knees in garden,
I took my dad’s advice.
In the lovely summer sun
I rubbed and it felt nice.

And soon the good old tingling came,
Both my legs felt numb.
I aimed my willy at the nest,
And filled it full of cum.

For those of you who don’t know anything, you fucking idiots, Em is my wonderful fiancee, Emma, and Jack is one of her three delightful children.