The ink isn't dry yet.




Eating cat food mutton pork pies,
for their was no other,
and you are just another number,
in the slaughter house of society,
who were afraid to kill you,
in case you fought back with chemicals
and old sharp butchers knives.


Said the little boy who knew no fear
and father who was on D.H.S.S. beer,
if this wasn't real, I wouldn't have to steal.


As pictures of smoking alcohol cars, block out,
the views of the asylum,
that wait those who wander and shout.


Dear Father Christmas,
please could you send us a new bike, as my Mum said,
the traffic from the flyover is poisoning us,
and could you send me a new dog
as our dog got squashed.

~