Sunday, 14 August 2011

Don't Push Me I work With Knives

You say what? Y'say what?
I don't care for
Or much like you lot;
Sitting there with your
Get down talk,
That's all you are;
Just air, just talk,
And you don't miss a beat,
But your missing half your teeth,
And your faded tats from back in the day
When you was such cool cats
Don't hide the tracks on your arms,
Looking like railway maps.
Yet maybe your not so bad guys,
There might be some common sense,
Or a conscience
Behind those smoky cirrhosis eyes,
And it is so bad if one of you is ill or,
God forbid, one of you dies
Yet you revel in your racism,
I bet it would turn you all on
To hear an Asian or African man's cries,
But you can't get it up,
As all day you sup, sup, sup;
Living the life, skating around on your giro:
Your an artist, a contemporary,
Half comatose filling out a claim form,
Confused using a needle as a biro,
I don't ask myself why though,
Because in my heart I know
That when you have tapped, milked,
Begged, borrowed, and stole;
That I wont see your face no more, well,
At least until you get your dole.
Don't worry though, I will let you be,
I wont tell you your a joke,
Or a waste of life,
Worse than a piece of shit
And a hundred times more vile. Why?
Because I am paid to
So it is all
Service with a smile.
Just please do the same for me
And leave me be,
Were not mates
And you don't understand
And you certainly don't see,
Because your a dirty little cretinous skag-head waste of life, skin, breath, space and time, with the IQ of the ticks that feed upon what isn't smack in your veins, and a look so disgustingly ugly not even your mother would claim you; and your father mustn't have been on the scene because any self-respecting man at birth would have brained you.
So slur your words to someone else, and not me;
Look in the mirror and tell me you don't see,
Your a model, a spokesman, the perfect candidate,
For why we shouldn't touch dope,
I watch you there, and wonder about the world and ask,
Is there any hope?

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