Uncle Smiths Dysfunctional Gang

Off you go again The Grim reapers of misery

You put the Shit Head

You put the vile in bile

You put the toss in pot

I bet you where that child, who like to sprinkle salt on slugs

I bet you were that child, who likes to pluck the wings of butterflies

I bet you were that child all the others wanted to slap

Walking around like a some fucking Bold headed Ghoul

Leading your gang of the uncaring un-dead

The only female who would have you

Must have had a brain, washed implant from birth

Attending a finishing school for the lobotomised

You sweat like sumo’s armpits

Reeking like last week’s Cornish pasty

Combined with the breath 3 month old y fronts of 70,s days

You’re a hateful bunch, a useless bunch

You toffee nosed web-footed, eyesores of humanity

But watch out one day

That day be coming sooner

Sooner than your malfunctioning mind, can fathom

You will be that slug

You will be that tortured, winged creature

Slap you all the way.

Into the rubbish skip of history

©Martin Hickman, February 2014