An unwelcome return for the feature that is little more than a thinly-disguised way to harvest you freaks who Google for disturbing things.

Same rules as ever. I keep going until I get bored or take more than a minute to come up with something that rhymes with "goatfuckery" or something.

 

Life be complex, Life be quick,
Insert it like a candle-stick,
That’s what I said the other day,
To my companion’s great dismay

They stared at me and called me odd,
I pointed out they’re a moody sod,
A fight began and knives were drawn,
In Freudian terms - this was porn.

But at times you must surely ask:
Is life a hard and thankless task?
Is there much point in going on?
I’ll top myself and come back a swan.

This is maybe not the right approach,
To an awkward subject, hard to broach,
Let’s take a breath and step right back,
Insert my fist entirely up your crack.

I am now your master puppet lord,
For a moment, you thought you scored,
Now I control your every move,
And I have a point to prove.

Dance little monkey bitch,
I’m a scratch you’ll never itch,
Now you are beneath my spell,
Your arse is mine, to buy or sell.

I guess I should have tried to help,
Not fist you violently to hear you yelp,
But frankly we’d just go round and round,
Cover the same infertile usual ground.

You’re a little mental, lets just plain face it,
To use the word sane would be to disgrace it,
It’s not a really long-lived debate,
Yes you’re mental, such is fate.

Now, moving on to happier things,
Like frog that hops or bird that sings,
Perhaps a plate with lots of cakes,
Or perhaps a toilet free of snakes.

I find myself thinking about odd ways,
In which I pass these summer days,
I used to find myself quite bored,
Yet of late my spirits soared.

It’s not actually a change in life,
Nor is it a divorce from a wife,
In fact if I look quite hard,
Perhaps I’ve just become a tard.

Is this age taking its hold?
Does time speed up as you get old?
Will days last seconds in real time,
While I grow sour as a lime.

Fuck all on the television,
Even then… such indecision,
Should I watch a show on shoes,
Or some chav with a short fuse?

Actually I think I have cracked it,
Now I realise that tv’s catshit,
Time is quick as self-defence,
From TV licence’s many pence.

The sheer fact I’ve got this far,
Has showed that I’m not in a bar,
I clearly have fuck all else to do,
The highlight of my day was a poo.

Enough of that, this is not myspace,
Oh thank fuck that’s not the case,
Yes I’m aware the reader may well,
Be offended…hmm… well go to hell.

I seem to be the only man,
In the whole human clan,
To resist the charms of the thing,
And all the joys that it must bring.

Actually this may explain,
Why so few readers share my pain,
If only I had a myspace account,
With vampire picture, perhaps a count.

Yet I don’t care about the hits,
Frankly it all gets on my tits,
I can’t take the aching thrill,
Of ladies wanting my sexual skill.

Now that I think about I may be wrong,
I’m spending my evening on this song,
Well poem if going to be exact,
Oh fuck you all, get some tact.

I don’t care that no-one contacts me,
Perhaps offering breasts that I can see,
I’m not bitter, no I’m not,
I sneezed on hand, so much snot.

Instead let’s go with what’s expected,
Now that my wrathful parts are all erected,
Something about an angry squirrel,
A blue one, whose name is Cyril.

So the squirrel went about its day,
Dressed in slacks and bad toupee,
As it walked along the street,
Gum would stick in furry feet.

He found this ever so annoying,
The gum was warm, it was cloying,
It would then pick up extra hair,
And he rose higher in the air.

Nine feet tall and one inch wide,
At night poor Cyril sadly cried,
He couldn’t get his feet all clean,
The other squirrels, they were mean.

“Lanky fuck” a friend would yell,
And with tears his eyes would swell,
Cyril could not help his fate,
Slowly sadness turned to hate.

“Motherfucker” Cyril wrote,
In secret diary on his scrote,
“I will show them, yes I will,
All those bastards I will kill.”

Cyril went off to buy a gun,
Revenge, he thought, would be fun.
Such a choice, so much choice,
“I’ll take that one” chimed his voice.

Armed with musket, ball and powder,
Cyril’s friends only laughed much louder,
His retro-choice was not the best,
Muzzle-loading is such a pest.

“Stay right there, give me a mo’”
Cried poor Cyril, upset so.
“It takes a minute to load this thing”
“You’re a prick” they all did sing.

They wouldn’t stand right in place,
Cyril’s pain was on his face,
He tried his hardest yet it was slow,
And his friends danced to and fro.

Finally he had it loaded,
This was it, he’d been goaded,
He took his deadly vengeful aim,
It was society that was to blame.

A bang, a flash, a mighty crash,
Cyril realised that he’d been rash,
While the theory had been sound,
He’d held the gun the wrong way round.

Bored.