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.