Listen, motherfucker, and let me make this clear:
I’ve had your fucking poetry up to here –
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 I’d’ve worn my polo neck
And brought along some high-strung bitch who’s anorexi-ec,
But I’m wearing just a tee-shirt, I’m getting off my tits,
The chick I’m with’s a barker, and my life is full of shit.
I’m not a man of violence, but I’ll give no guarantee
When I’m faced with symbolism and onamatapee:
There’s a fucking artist! – let me get my stick!
You want a fucking beating? C’mon, then: go sick.
