My Garden Jeremy Clarkson
Beneath my climbing roses
And behind my marigolds
There lives a funny fella
A celebrity I am told
He crept into my garden
One night whilst I was sleeping
And it seems he’s made a home of it
Through the hedge I catch him peeping

He doesn’t have a stitch on
So at night he must get cold
But he says he doesn’t need clothes
He is warm enough, I’m told
He likes to dig holes in the soil
He’s ruined my begonias
He says he doesn’t mean to
But that’s probably erroneous

I like to hear him sing at night
A lullaby for owls
And the roses really have come on
From the contents of his bowels
The moonlight shines upon his arse
As white as whitest snow
And illuminates the garden
With a strange and spectral glow

Yes I think that I will keep him there
He’s really rather useful
And I’ve grown quite fond of him by now
If I am to be truthful
He keeps himself well hidden
So my husband’s none the wiser
My garden Jeremy Clarkson
And his marvellous fertiliser.

Today’s a marvellous glorious day
And one I wish to keep
I cast my seeds in fertile soil
And from it did I reap.
I drank some lovely herbal tea
From an Aztec cup and saucer
Made by a native Mexican
And Jeremy Clarkson said ’Tosser’.

And then I ate some tofu,
Falafel and spelt bread
And chopped up avocado
Oh, what a toothsome spread.
But best was when I then relaxed
And read a bit of Chaucer
’Cos Jeremy Clarkson saw all this
And then called me a tosser.

Cycling down a country lane,
Oh, what a fine delight.
The air is pure, the sky is blue
The sun is shining bright.
But best is at the junction
Where a car’s a dangerous crosser
Which winds its driver’s window down,
And Jeremy Clarkson shouts ’Tosser!’

Jeremy Clarkson In Our Chip Shop
I ordered chips and battered cod
And to my great surprise
It wasn’t Mrs Braithwaite
Who appeared before my eyes
She’d run the local chippy
With her husband Chipshop Fred
Since 1957,
Then alone once he was dead

And every Wednesday Bob and I
Would pop in for our teas
Cod and chips for two we’d get
With extra mushy peas
A slice of bread and butter
And a pickled egg for Bob
And Mrs Braithwaite serviced us
Every time, as that’s her job

But tonight there was no sign of her
It really was quite queer
For, though I was expecting her,
A stranger did appear
A tall man with a ruddy face
And messy curly hair
In Mrs Braithwaite’s apron
Instead was standing there

I thought it was her son at first
The one that’s not a soldier
But that lad’s only thirty two
This fella looks much older
I said to Bob, ‘Bob - who’s that man?’
He said ‘Mavis, don’t ask me’
So, addressing him directly
I enquired who he might be

‘My name is Jeremy Clarkson ma’m!’
Said the man with such a boom
It sent the plastic forks and napkins
Hurtling round the room
The fish, though dead, were so disturbed
They leapt out of the frier
The till went hurtling to the floor
And the sausages caught fire

The window panes imploded
And the baps leapt 15 feet
Through the door, blown off its hinges,
And out into the street
Where reverend Pike was walking past
‘Oh Jesus Christ!’ he muttered
And skidded over on his arse
Because they were all buttered

Then came a fearful rumble
And the walls began to shudder
I heard slates falling off the roof
And smash into the gutter
Then suddenly around us all
It all came crashing down
Since 1957,
This chip shop’s been in town!

And now this massive red-faced oaf
Has raised it to the ground
With his awful foghorn of a voice
Such a devastating sound
Now I don’t know what Bob and me
Will do next Wednesday night
We’ll probably have curry
But Mr Khan’s is shite

Get off of my land
Bloody vegans and cyclists
Get me some hot food.

Dave and Sarah met by chance
In 1998
Whilst protesting student loans
And other stuff that students hate
They had so much in common
A joint wish to save the planet
And if you’d asked them what they’d do
About the bomb?
They’d ban it

They sat up late in Sarah’s room
Drinking herbal tea
Playing chess because it was
More clever than TV
By day they soaked green lentils
By night they watched the stars
And scoffed at all the students
Who got drunk and things in bars

They had their wedding in some woods
And then some vegan food
Guests weren’t given alcohol
In case it made them rude
By 10pm, the night was done
And everyone went home
Dave and Sarah went to bed
And sealed the deal alone

Nine months on their son was born
They named him Alexander
But just to make him more unique
They shortened it to Xander
They dressed him up in purest hemp
And an eco friendly nappy
His first few steps, in vegan shoes,
Made both parents very happy

They decided to home school him
Believing that was best
(At school he’d not be free to dance
Or feed from Sarah’s breast)
They taught him about flowers
And how to rescue wasps
They holidayed in Morocco
And went to visit mosques

Time went by in such a blur
Of patchwork, leaves and planting
Xander grew into a man
Who liked the stars and chanting
He had flowers tattooed on his arms
To make him look more weird
And spent all his meagre income
On the upkeep of his beard

He liked to go for vegan meals
And cycle around town
And always signed his emails
With his preferable pronoun
At night he played old vinyl
And sipped upon craft beers
That were only brewed in moonlight
With nettles and bees’ tears

Eventually the time had come
For him to find a wife
And give a child what he had had -
A vegan cyclist life
But there my friends I’m sad to say
Is where my tale ends flat
For Xander died a virgin
Because Xander was a twat

Seven Caravan Convoy
I’m gonna drive ’em all
A seven caravan convoy’s trying to hold me back
They’re gonna rue the day
Taking their time in their stupid hatchbacks
And I’m honking on my horn at them
Because I can’t get past
Back and forth on the gas
I need to go fast.

And the message coming from my eyes
Says, ‘Get off the road!’

Ooooooohhh, Jeremy Clarkson
Ooooooohhh, Jeremy Clarkson
Ooooooohhh, Jeremy Clarkson
Ooooooohhh, Jeremy Clarkson

Don’t wanna hear about it
The bleedin’ hearts with a story to tell
Sod the BBC
The Director General and his personnel
And if I catch you serving vegan food
I’m gonna give it to you
And punch you in your stupid face
Because I need hot food.

And the feeling coming from my bones
Says, ‘You can moan.’

Ooooooohhh, Jeremy Clarkson
Ooooooohhh, Jeremy Clarkson
Ooooooohhh, Jeremy Clarkson
Ooooooohhh, Jeremy Clarkson

I’m going to my own farm
Far from the plebs and the wretched bores
I’m gonna work the land
Make the most of the great outdoors
But I’m seething, and I’m seething, and I’m seething
Because every day
The tossers walk across my land
’Cos it’s a 'right of way'.

And the stains coming from my blood
Tell them, ‘Go back home’.

Ooooooohhh, Jeremy Clarkson
Ooooooohhh, Jeremy Clarkson
Ooooooohhh, Jeremy Clarkson
Ooooooohhh, Jeremy Clarkson


People Who Catch The Bus
People who catch the bus
People who catch the bus
People who catch the bus
People who catch the bus


Sad Old Women Who Keep Cats
Sad old women who keep cats -
Who would want to live like that?
They sit at home and just get fat
And gather old and useless tat.
They may as well keep flocks of bats
Or live in stinking sewers with rats
But on their sofa they’ll be sat
Amongst their infestation of cats.

A proper pet is man’s own dog
With it you can take a jog
Through fields and meadows, even bogs
And never mind the rain and fog.
Out amongst the toads and frogs
Through the farms of sows and hogs
Climbing over fallen logs,
It’s such a joy to have a dog.

But no, you chose to have a cat
Cooped up in your council flat
Where in your dungarees you’ve shat
And harboured lice around your twat.
At passers by you’ve sworn and spat,
Drinking cider from a vat
While wearing an old woolly hat
Sad and lonely, with a cat.

Lovely Ladies Who Keep Cats
Lovely ladies who keeps cats
Who wouldn’t want to live like that?
To hear them purr and meow and that
Feed them til they’re round and fat
They just need stroking, hugs and pats
And, cats kill spiders, mice and rats
And when they die they make great hats
Who would not want to keep cats?

Only a twat would have a dog
Slobbering like a slimy frog
Stinking like a blocked-up bog
Full of turd and poo and log
That nobody would dare unclog
Walking it in snow and fog
Missing telly for each jog
Who would want to keep a dog?

I myself prefer a cat
So fuck you Mike, you massive twat
Go and walk your canine rat
In some fields where sheep have shat
I hope you fall into a vat
Of battery acid - how bout that?
Or get hit with a baseball bat
While I laugh and stroke my cat.

Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?
Who wants to be a millionaire?
Well, you do, but I don’t really care
Because when all is said and done
I already am one.

Here you sit all full of stress
Thinking if it’s worth a guess
Or if you can phone up a friend
On whom you can depend.

Or should you ask the audience
Although the answer’s obvious?
To me they look a gormless bunch
Who I would like to punch.

But it is you that makes me sick
Because I know you’re really thick.
You’re everything that I despise
And don’t deserve this prize.

Why not buy a Lottery ticket?
I can tell you where to stick it
And where you vile pathetic cringer
Can shove your fastest finger.

So get your arse off my show
You’re tedious and far too slow
Grow a pair and be a chancer
Say those words - final answer.

Ha! You stupid spazzy mong.
You’re so dumb - you got it wrong.
But I can’t say that - I must be polite
What a bag of shite.

At least I’m getting paid a lot
So really I don’t give a jot
So everyone, give your applause
For this sad cause.

To Be A Millionaire
I’d LOVE to be a millionaire
To swan about without a care
Imagine the cats that could be mine
If I could only match a line
A spotted Bengal sleek and proud
With glossy coat he’d yowl so loud
Or perhaps a Persian, big and shaggy
With bright blue eyes and tail so waggy
A Russian Blue would be so nice
Too regal to be catching mice
Or maybe I could buy a horse?
Oh won’t you give me some of yours?


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