Monday, 13 November 2017


Is your jacket quilted?
Your bog roll,
The same pattern?
Whilst your
Bright house derrière,
Does prepare,
On the golden throne
You’re sat on?

Pants by ankles, hoping
The golden retriever,
Doesn’t leave you,
Jilted on the John.
After you wipe your arse,
With paradise paper,
Just remember who
You’ve shat on.

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