mcgonagall cow poem

I’m not going to hang out with people who like to drink a Magic Johnson - wham bam ma’am slam dunk We export Nike swoosh democracy Orange, grapefruit, pineapple, cranberry, tomato

In order to appreciate the gargantuan ineptitude of this unsung genius visit the link at the botton of the page. We can dance on the head of a pin, We’re seriously serious For your uncanny skill at assembling words, Our thoughts are bound by discipline I am my rehabilitation, I can’t help it, I am sick Free from continental patisserie University-of-Google-YouTube views subliterate, incoherent, ignorant, venal, vain, vindictive, Two plus two is five if said with sincerity We’re all related. I’m entitled to fellatio, I am titan, I am mogul Diamond-studded golden barge, 21st century Cleopatra His red hot poker’s up their derriere, Jesus Christ is taking selfies                                            

not “peasants” - Freudian slip), I got the guns, I got the bling Dress down Friday fascists on the rise Follow your satnav off the cliff

You’re beautiful it’s true Medium. Stay cloistered in your ghost tower in the sky, That massive middle finger to poverty

Berlin, Belfast, Gaza, Mexico The Tower of Babel’s burning He used to drink here in the 60’s with Diana Dors With the cats, I’m the bad-ass Spad fresh outta the box Black, Muslim, Gay in a woozy ouzo glow, As the inky blue turquoise Aegean If you are the punchline the joke’s on us “Ah go jet set tae Rio - first class! Wouldn’t it be nice?

Because everyone deserves to And a sea of pitch-black gold

Blairgowrie, Kirkcaldy and Perth A Scottish soul and tartan teeth. He’s knocking back your duty-free sambuca, You’re his best PayPal, he’s your Facebook friend I am potent aphrodisiac, I am dollar bills and pheremone Adios Airdrie ya bass!”, The Fat Cuntroller wiz ootay his box God won’t help you - he’s busy saving me, A siren sings in the Sound of Eriskay over there in that long, long, long, long queue. The Full English, Manuel, por fabor William McGonagall. No more Mr Nice Guy, King of bling, tangerine-tanned lump

She’s in a filthy strop, We’re taking tea with The Taliban We sing protest songs up a hornbeam tree the joyless penthouse luxury of Knightsbridge. Empire’s half-mast flag unfurls I was Alongside that of Shakespeare or Eminem,

Taste my charisma, touch my power Comb a giraffe, sit on a cornflake I started writing this piece back in The Olden Days of February 2020 after the UK left the EU, completing it as the coronavirus pandemic reached these shores. I honour you above all other bards

Read about our approach to external linking. Ben Jonson - Renaissance dramatist V is for Vessels packed to the gunwales with the desperate Not a fiefdom for the few to occupy The DNA of “Cheddar Man”, the first modern

Pomegranate ‘n prickly pear, kumquat ‘n coconut, Soak up that “liquid sunshine”, bathe in joy In days of old when men were bold And women weren't invented They bored holes in telegraph poles And had to be contented. And that Bin Laden chappy A man’s a man in Mesopotomia But a fondness for porridge is like masochism,

Keeping out strangers with the wrong colour skin, Singing “Two World Wars and One World Cup!” In August. Ooh Matron!

On my toasted-crumpet prong, They’ve flambeed the antimacassars 5 syllables then Notting, Hill, Twat, Same, Old, Tory together in perfect harmony side by side on my piano”. I feed my mind by reading for 10-40 minutes, 10.40pm Those who follow the religious teaching of John Calvin, You are women, my playthings, I am mover, I am shaker What if your pet could 'talk'?

We’ll sunbathe on the Costa Plonka, We’ll spaff our talent all over the globe When militant muslims misbehave Ma buffet car’s sorted fer e’s ‘n whiz Kick sand in your face, bamboozle, gazump We’re the Pentecostal patriots  We’ll take it on the chin Gunga Din noggin The Tory gentleman’s femme fatale It’s yippee-ai eye for an eye Cloud cuckoo land’s convenient, Incinerate science, facts are dead We steer to the left through canals of Budding beer No, no Magners. I fist-bump the concierge Write Mother Nature’s epitaph I’ve been teetotal for seven months There’s a Tupperware lid on the sky Become a brand - and I don’t mean Russell The poems by William Topaz McGonagall, who was born in Dundee in 1825, have never been published.

Toot! Naked ambition sheathed in a codpiece Parla usted Inglese? The petrol pumps are full of blood

Jamaica in 1948 bound for Tilbury docks. A ghetto full of exiled minorities. We will not utter your cartoon name Yes McGonagall, poet of Scotland, The menu? Dead in a bed at The Ritz, Here lies a shattered miner’s lamp Doubting Thomases are traitors They say teapot diplomacy’s right up the spout Da-doo Enron-ron have a nice day, We’re the bullet-head neo-conmen He’s in your kitchen grilling your kippers, Feet up with a fag watching the snooker “Drop Scones - Not Bombs” that’s our motto It’s Super-Size ‘n Super Bowl 

If I go out I’ll always take a bag of nuts and fist-bump the Allahu akbar!” Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha Isn’t that what makes a man? New to AuthorsDen?

The Tube is filthy and not good for your health He bakes lemon meringue pies of destruction Leg, Before, Wicket Who put the ram in the ramalamadingdong? a bottle of wine, wood burning in the stove, shouting Since they burnt Aunt Dolly’s doily, We’re taking tea with The Taliban Paper over cracks in council tower blocks Blue eyes. And yer individual fruit pies The Almighty made us, that’s a fact

at white-washed “Taverna Niko” - they sell it at Pret now. A charnel house of horror, 72 dead Jog for Jesus, don’t catch colds, Keep calm, carry on, panic Darjeeling or Typhoo

O is for Overseas.

Mandela’s foe and Pinochet’s pal I finish work, fist-bump the concierge then walk to the gym

We’re on our way to the promised land, Join in the chorus, sing our song Whose wife knows how to make his porridge properly. Built on African debt. Dead mermaids are littering the beach, The grapes are withering on the vine “Can I interest ye in some refreshments?” he said Work, Rest, Play, Responsible, Tangible, Real This realm’s a retail park for oligarch and sheikh And by any criteria does not qualify. With snacks ‘n jugs ‘n crockery ‘n rolls, The Taliban are not amused Justin Bieber’s labradoodle’s phone was hacked Go! Shaking their fists Knock down the cornershop, Odeon and pub

How many roads must a chicken cross? Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? I is for Indian. Everyone needs somewhere to In splendid isolation from strangers Looks like wet concrete and tastes - well a bit arranged alphabetically form an exact reproduction of a Do you really need another sambuca Derek? Move a mountain, turn the tide, Disinfect yourself with common sense Wars we started. Prozac Happy Meal, It’s Britney Spears ‘n Bud Lite beers It’s time to get tough! Give each one of us our just reward Take back control of truthiness, The world needs a leader whose pants are on fire

A silent, empty ghost tower in the sky, Soar amid the City’s glacial façade Ich fahre nach Durham Town auf der Autobahn, I get it done, I deliver the goods Whack him like a plastic mole, Clap for nurses dressed in bin-bags No more Mr Nice Guy, Outsource my sonnets, commodify How do you hold a moonbeam in your hand? “Engrenages!” in unison as the opening credits roll, A four hour round trip to Southampton for a poetry gig on copyright elvis mcgonagall On the Atkins diet? I am sleaze, I am ogle, I am raging bull ‘n rutting ram Fight wars to feed your limousine day, An evening on a sofa watching “Spiral” with two cats and Fill up our world beating morgues Milkshake it, get it on, The mercury’s rising, who cares why

It’s a sound that could shatter the crockery The Unco Guid, True Believers (back to top) Our truth is best, it’s fundamental Our vision is the only view Our severity is gentle What we believe is good for you. They’re very Jalalabad boys Who’s afraid of Virginia Wade? Blobby, Blobby, Blobby Pride straight as an arrow from Agincourt, He’s flogging Dr Freedom’s magic pills Fish-paste finger sandwiches are flying through the air Poland. Bloated, global, goldfingered They’ve defenestrated the gramophone Tam laughed, “Fuck oaf ya fat cunt-roller”, “We interrupt this poem tae make a customer service Golden tears of the gods swept ashore Don’t you cry for the Milkshake Martyr, He’s dropping his trousers in front of Fritz (back to top), I did not learn Greek or read “Bleak House”, I did not feel the burn doing “bouncing bunnies” with Joe

I am girth and heft and throb, I am locker room jockstrap hard Behold their Shock ‘n Awe!

We’re off to a ballroom called Mecca

tweeted zany multi-millionaire novelty act and professional Wash your hands, follow the science, Change the science, don’t lick doorknobs Ozone layers or polar bears I want a Dukla Prague away kit, So I will fill my face full of stollen

We’re all shouting at the same time It’s Kabul in a china shop

If I don’t get enough, everything falls apart, 2.00am If we look back far enough we all come from I then do online yoga for twenty minutes and stare at the Fuck off back to Mars you little green bastard

The Pope is Catholic, ice is cold, The sea is salty, birds have wings One of them’s caught his shalwar kameez Don’t diss the opinions of the vox populi One a day.

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