Poetry

Conversational Miss Herrings Part V

Some heroin just flew off with a koi in its mouth, Anne Widdecombe a ticket to Europe, your phone’s in the oven, they’ve made the Brentford, there’s racists around the corner called The Good Old Fashioned, I’ll have a skinny giblet, I’ve taken up parties to clear my mind and keep fit, sweet tit ice, it’s not as if you were doing it with The Corrs, he can catch baby eyes, throwing a House night in Edinburgh Castle, his star sign is Tom, Creative and Professional Reilly, take some pictures with your condom, I totally eat and agree my greens, yep, BLACK Chris, cucumbers transform into butterflies, ‘‘right, got that, keys, bra…’’ buckwheat hoes, clinging by his fringe tips, Richard Dawkins remains one of the world’s finest naturists, Chesney were invincible when losing 4-1 to Middlesboro’, you’ve got a team but not an angle, where are my tits? And what are this week’s module regions? filters, feelings, fielders, fingers, feelers, pee on the blinds, think I’ll get a pack of penis, would you like some penis? Oh, I’ll kick you in the kidney over year, my sun-eyed girl/HEEEY! I rode a move, it’s only about six bust-ups to Canning Town from here, we’re the best of French, there’s two dungs on the pitch for Blackburn – they’re not related, I thought I’d dye my hair green before getting a blow job, forever alone, Newcastle vs. Age, they have a fetish for cabs, where’s Maja phone? I was thinking of murdering a bus, we’re on the Casper of something great, I got her a used Pritt Stick, punch this and you’ll feel a boner, Jesus wouldn’t be at a gay bar, do the fucking lady and play that fucking music, white boy, the cheese string is the worst for staying in tune, black condoms inside a dog, had a threw up this morning, discuss your apes and aspirations in Copywriting, the dildo mission statement generator, I’ve got an appointment with the racist to look at my teeth, why you not wearing jeans? Cos’ I’m a homo fucker, Gazza the Bummunist, those good old boys drinking whiskey and rhyme, I’d write a poem about octopuses, but baby jeans are thinner than adult pigeons.

Written by Ricky Murray

19/03/13


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