Sod's Law

(in a Cardiff accent)

Bratcher and Bestie and Boppo and Biff
Went down the drope for a beer an a spliff
It was July they was all sweating conkers
Cos they was still wearing shell suits the plonkers
An Bratcher was wearing a Burberry cap
Thar he got down Bessemer Road
An Bestie fake filas he bought from a chap
Who said he had come by a load
An Boppo a chain thar he nicked off some bloke
When he beat him up outside the legion
An Biff just had acne but he liked a smoke
An dealt all the blow in the region
So Bratcher and Bestie and Boppo and Biff
Smoked up the grass till their eyes went skewiff
An drank down the beer an smoked a bit more
An soon they was all out of carling an draw
An lay on the grass an talked about stuff
Like who of em got Hayley Jones up the duff
And which one done Kayley an which one done Kelly
And did they all fink tha tha Laura was smelly
An who raped Shanice did she call the police
A pie or her pasty, which had more grease?
And should they all go up and do her again
They'd teach her to be more respectful to men
They'd slap her the slapper and kick wiv their Kappas
And rape to the rhythmic rhymes of their fave rappers
And then they'd nip off down the Knap for a nap
And hope that the cow hadn't give um the clap
Tho if she had least they'd all have it together
They was good mates and would be mates for ever
In a world full uh sluts, they was firm butts
And so saying that they lay down on the grass
And slept, in such a way that they all had their nuts
Facing the crack in their firm butt's firm arse.

But as they slept -
From over the woods and far away
Came an elf sprite bright and gay
A fairy with a magic wand
That liked young boys brunette and blonde
It sprinkled moon dust in the eyes
Of these macho mashed up guys
Or maybe it was Martian dust
Or from Uranus, for with lust
It filled each lad, each loyal brother
Not for birds - but for each other...

When Bratcher and Bestie and Boppo and Biff
Woke from their nap they was all feeling stiff
Not in their arms or their backs or their necks
But down in their white low-slung bri-nylon keks
They had this weird feeling, a strange sorta itch
They looked at each other and started to twitch
They was block up on drugs and block up with juice
They'd lost all their senses - their shell suits come loose
Stark naked they stood, down Ely wood
And their own Ely wood was soon up to no good
As they fondled and thrusted and twisted and kissed
For years they'd repressed, now they couldn't resist
They forgot about Hayley and Laura and Kelly
They forgot about raping that slut
For they had discovered the best kind of cherry
Is covered in dark chocolate
And it tasted good, and they all chose to swallow
The first course was semen, with chocolate to follow
And Bratcher buttered the baps of each boy
And Bestie snacked on each sweet saveloy
And Boppo found that a finger of fudge is good enough to eat
And Bratcher discovered he did like salami
And with Bestie's white bread made a nice sarnie
And Boppo turned all of his fingers into a chocolate-y treat
And when Bratcher and Bestie and Boppo and Biff
Was all fulla fluid like bottles uh Cif
Their itches all scratched, their urges unblocked
They broke like a jigsaw, their bodies unlocked
And they all fell asleep on the grass once again
And into sweet dreams, four satisfied men…

But of course some hours later when they awoke
They couldn’t believe what they done
The spell had worn off, they all blamed the dope
They put on their shell suits and run
Away from the Drope and back to their mums
Four shell-shocked blokes with very sore bums
And got in their beds and all sucked their thumbs
And cried, cos inside, each of em knew he was homo
But if you are tough, then being a puff, is always a definite no-no
So all four repressed it and never discussed it
And in fact never spoke they was all so disgusted
They all blamed the fairies, the goblins, the elves
They couldn’t accept they was fairies themselves
And they married or moved as soon as they could
And forgot what they done that day down Ely wood

And the moral is this: the most macho fellas
Who usually treat women like slags
Will often turn out to be real Cinderellas
Lady boys, homos and fags
If gays make you feel queer then you’re queer
If they don’t then you’ve nothing to fear
But sod’s law dictates, if you feel strong distaste
Then that fairy will, one day, appear

The End

I was watching television
When the picture went astray
And there came a strange transmission:
“The government is sad to say
That there’s been a nuclear fission
In this land we love today
So we’ve made the swift decision
To leave you here and go away.
We bring this message, in our wisdom
Hours later – as you lay
Asleep we were already risen
And halfway on our holiday.
Yes, there’s been a cataclysm
And yes, we would’ve liked to stay
But we thought the best thing isn’t
To remain, and like you pay
The price that radioactivism
Will wreak in your DNA.
Take heart, dear United Kingdom
Tho of sunshine there’s no ray
(Literally, for the frisson
Of the fission caused a grey
Mass to mass up, and all vision
Is, inside a fiery spray,
Lost thanks to this foul emission -
It rose just like a blown ashtray
Or a sudden apparition)
We would still like to convey
Our sorrow, and we do envision
Our return some future day.
Until then, it is our mission
Still to rule the dear UK
Tho we’ll do it from a distant
Base out near the USA.
T’will be hard, but do not listen
To what cynics will convey;
It’s not time now for suspicion,
But to face this sad melee
With the guts befits a Briton
Fighting in a fresh foray.
Challenges there’ll be, so kiss ‘em,
Embrace suffering we pray;
Do not stoop to pessimism -
It’s too late now anyway.
Forgive your local politician,
Think him not a popinjay;
In such times we turn tactician
And must prevent our own decay
In order to aid your condition:
Which we’ll do from this far bay.
Be of cool, calm disposition
And try not to feel dismay
If your skin’s in poor condition
With huge blotches on display.
This is fine, in your position,
And, if you have time, survey
The other people in your vision:
They’re mottled in a similar way.
There might perhaps be a physician
Who, with poultice, can assay
The pain that this swift demolition
Of the skin will cause, but they
Cannot cure it; no magician
Could, so, like a flesh bouquet,
Let each bloody acquisition
Flourish in a red array.
In short, against our own volition
We left, but we did not betray
Your trust: we recommend submission,
Do not make cries of “foul play”.
We have here some ammunition –
So before you speak please weigh
Up your verbal composition;
Every school, house and café,
Has, by a council technician,
Been fitted with a hidden ray
Device, which picks up with precision
Every word; so if you sway
A little left of our petition,
We’ll turn your bodies back to clay.
Now, I must make an admission -
I am late for a soiree.
There will be a fine musician
And a freshly made soufflé.
I leave you then to your new prison.
Please don’t cry, you’ll be okay
As long as you accept tradition:
Us to rule; you to obey.

CAP'N COLEMAN, TO HIS LOVE

A poem written in 1569 by the famous pirate, CAPTAIN COLEMAN, only just discovered in an attic in Pentwyn

CAP’N COLEMAN IS MOY NAME
BEIN’ A POY-RUT IS MOY GAME
OY’D LIKE T’MAKE YOU WALK MOY PLANK
CEPT THAT ALL THAT RUM OY DRANK
HAS MADE MOY PLANK A LI-UL SHOY
GIMME AN HOUR AN’ THEN OY’LL TROY
TO PLUMB YOUR DEEP, OY’LL MAKE YOU WEEP
WI’ PLEASURE, TREASURE, THEN OY’LL SLEEP
COS FIVE MINS IS ENOUGH FUR ME
DON’ PULL THAT FACE, MOY LOVE, YOU’LL SEE
THAT IN FIVE MINS OY’LL MAKE YOU QUIVER
MY TIMBER, LASS, WILL MAKE YOU SHIVER
FUR OY’M A POY-RUT WHO HAS GOT
A MAP, LOOK ERE, “X” MARKS THE SPOT
THIS ERE MAP’S SHAPED LIKE YOUR BOOTY
AND IT IS MY POY-RUT DOOTY
TO FOLLOW THE MAP, OY WILL NOT REST
UNTIL MY ‘ANDS ARE ON YOUR CHEST
I WANT YOUR JEWEL, OY WILL FIND IT
YOUR SECRET CAVE, OY’LL GET INSIDE IT
AND THEN OY’LL TAKE THE WHOLE DAMN LOT
COS, MY DARLIN’, YOU HAVE GOT
JUST WHAT OY WANT, MY SEXY SLUT
LET’S PUT THE “RUT” INTO “POY-RUT”
SO WAIT A WHILE AND LET US SUP
AND THEN THIS POY-RUT WILL “POP-UP”

Ode to Middle Class Poets

The poets of the middle classes
Can kiss the working classes arses
With their sonnets and their farces
Written on soft vellum

Their empty drivel fills the bookshop
They churn the fucking shit out non-stop
Any educated posh fop
Can write crap books and sell um

Their subject matter’s really serious
The style employed is dry and tedious
These posh pricks are so imperious
Thanks to their cerebellum

They think because we’re not so bright
Is why we shun that poetry night
No, it’s cos your work is shite
Is what I want to tell um

There still exists a class division
Your dad’s a teacher, mine’s in prison
The working classes work, your jissom
Won’t ever compel um

But I doubt these poets would listen
And so I make it my own mission
With words to repel um
And here’s the first word:
CUNTS