Listen, motherfucker, and let me make this clear: Iíve had your fucking poetry up to here Ė Your tender recollections and wistful reminisce: Excuse me, Mr. Shakespeare, whilst I go and have a piss.
Somebody start a fight or something
If I wanted Chekhov Iídíve worn my polo neck And brought along some high-strung bitch whoís anorexi-ec, But Iím wearing just a tee-shirt, Iím getting off my tits, The chick Iím withís a barker, and my life is full of shit.
Iím not a man of violence, but Iíll give no guarantee When Iím faced with symbolism and onamatapee: Thereís a fucking artist! Ė let me get my stick! You want a fucking beating? Címon, then: go sick.