April is the cruellest month, breeding
Bastards out of my dead glands, mixing
Self-loathing and inappropriate desire, stirring
Dull balls with lusty pain.
Cointreau kept us warm, covering
My crimes in forgetful snow, feeding
An enormous wife with Kentucky Fried Chicken.
My ejaculation surprised her, coming over her duvet,
With a shower of sin: we stopped in the Asda,
And went to the beer aisle, to get some Hofmeister,
And drank Tia Maria, and vomited for an hour.
Mein Schwanz ist klein, ich hasse das deutsche Volk,
And when I was a child, staying at my randy Uncle’s,
My cousin, he took me out to the shed,
And I was frightened. He said, Gaylord,
Gaylord, hold this tight. And down he went.
In the garden shed, there he felt me up.
I read jazz mags, much of the night, and go mental in the winter.
Under the brown fog of a massive shite,
A turd floated under London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought my guts had produced so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each big crap sloshed onto my feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Sister Mary kept the turds,
With her dead soul on the final stroke of cock.
There I saw Wes Craven, and stopped him crying: ‘Wes!
‘You must remember me, surely, for fuck’s sake!
‘That corpse we buried in your garden
‘Has it been found by the police yet? Will it result in another spell in bugger prison?
‘Or has the shite been cleaned out of my bed?
‘Oh not the Dog’s shit, that’s just normal,
‘Or he’ll dig the corpse up again!
‘You! hypocritical letch – I detest the French too! – I’ve shat myself again!’