Friday, 30 March 2007

Axl's Poetry Corner.

I reckon anyone can write poetry, coz most of the stuff I've read is shit so it really can't be that difficult. To test this theory, I'm gonna write a poem now off the top of my head. Let me know what you think.

Fucked Up On Garlic Crabcakes.

I've got a camel on my back and it's excitably drunk,
Like Thelonious Monk.
Spunk dribbling out the side of it's mouth.
It's got three humps,
His girlfriends got AIDS and mumps,
So he dumps her.
She throws herself under a train,
Everyone curses her name,
As they're going insane in a three hour standstill.
Jack and Jill popped a pill and got their fill,
Staring at their hands,
Jill sucking on Jacks glands.
Jill was pregnant in the mornin',
Went to a clinic and got an abortion.
Things were never the same between them.
Jill started drinkn',
And Jack started going to gay clubs.
Got himself a hardon,
Got taken up the arse in Covent Garden,
But forgot to use a condom.
Now he's got Hepatitis B.
Jill's too drunk to see the car in the road,
And she gets mowed down.
Paralised from the waist down in her nightgown,
She'll never walk again.
Meanwhile, my camel friend is chewing on my ear.
He really is a fucking nuisance.


Pipsywoo said...

Ummm, ok.

Maybe you could sell it to George Pringle...she'll love it!

degs said...

He bought a satchel.
Then he stroked it
Thats right,
Axel stroked his bag.
Even though it didn't rhyme.
And destroyed the rhythm of the verse.
But and least he didn't buy a purse.
Cos that would have been worse.
And that.

Soon his bag erupted spunk
To the ryhthm of Thelonius Monk,
It squirted faeces,
and smelled of shit
and arm pits,
and unwashed tits,
and other weeping bits,
And burnt hair.
It got smeared on Jill's Lap,
And spread in a bap.
That Jack Ate.