I think I’ll write a poem called "Fuck" 

I’ll just keep going ’til I get stuck. 

For, though I have nothing to say 

I thought I’d write it anyway. 

Feel free to bale out any time 

It’s your right; It ain’t a crime 

But trust me when I give this warning, 

My dull poem could set you yawning. 

But if you feel that you’re content 

To read a poem with no content 

You’re welcome in this ode with me 

I’d even make a cup of tea 

For you my reader if I could 

But poetry’s not quite what it should 

Be and to do something that’s physical 

Would be pointless and derisible, 

So excuse me while I waffle on 

Instead of stopping to put the kettle on. 

Did you see Brookside last night? 

I thought it was a crock of shite. 

Oh, if I were the ideal host 

I’d cook you up a Sunday roast 

But you’ll not get a can of Fanta 

As you read my puerile banter. 

And it won’t get any better 

So you might want to go get a 

Shot of whisky or a keg of 

Ale or you might gnaw your leg off, 

Poke your eyes out with a stick 

Or pour petrol on your dick 

And drop a burning match on it, 

And then you’ll scream out "Holy Shit! 

What the fuck have I just done? 

It started out a bit of fun, 

But now this poem has just gone silly 

And I’ve gone and burned my willy. 

I’d better get a glass of water." 

(Or you might say something shorter.) 

Now, I don’t know if you’re a blamer 

But I’d like to issue this disclaimer. 

Because I couldn’t make you a cup of tea 

I’m not accepting responsibility 

For personal injury or loss 

Just because this poem is toss. 

You read these lines at your own risk, 

I don’t care if you’ve slipped your disc. 

I don’t care if you’ve gone insane, 

It’s not this poem that’s fried your brain. 

I bet you’ve taken lots of drugs, 

Dealt to you by skinhead thugs. 

Well, we don’t want your sort round here 

You give our fucking dogs the fear 

This poem was written for decent folk 

Not brainless cunts who are high on coke 

Or jack up ’til they’re off their tits 

And fall down in convulsive fits. 

So, get the fuck out of my poem 

Before I find you too annoying, 

You scrounging willy burning prat, 

You whinging parasitic twat, 

I’ll make you leave this poem, my friend, 

By simply coming to the end. 



Shitespace | Stories

copyright © Shitespace 1994 - 2023

terms | privacy | cookies | contact