Think of me
When my trousers are down
Think of me
When I'm wearing a gown
Think of me
When the probe slips inside
Think of me
As I'm trying to hide
Because all I do
Is
I think of you
When my trousers are down
When I'm wearing a gown
When the probe slips inside
When I'm trying to hide
I think of you
Inside your cage
I think of you
Possessed by rage
I think of you
Inside my arse
I think of you
Being rescued
By
The doctor's lubricated glove
But I want you to know
I do RSPCate you
I really do
But the PDSAin I feel
Compels these acts
Despite the onus on my anus
Don't forget to sell your story
Revel in this anal-glory
Front page picture
Of a hamster....
Or gerbil....
It's not that I don't remember your name (or species)
Just a lot on my mind.
Allotment.
Stop now.
Shed.
The whimsical whomsical garden orifice
The place
Where I
Stick my oroface.
When I'm not welcome
In my other shed.
Tools.
Include a pile of soil-stained magazines
A picture of a dog
With Bernard Breslaw's head
Before the rise to fame
Of Photoshop instead.
And all the space and time
That cannot be measured
By men with matted minds aloof.
I will burn in my shed.
I will burn with my "lad" in my hand
And a pair of guilty shorts
Like a rope around my knees
Whilst the moon watches
Through a crack
Like the dirty little moon it is.
Filthy
Moon.
Threesome
Moon.
Just you and me son,
Moon.
And the "lad" in my hand, son.
A cosmic tryst.
Fuck me I'm pissed.