Mar 2017
too many youtube punctuation akins before my voice comes through, like: hi! i'm child-minding chalrie! ola! oo! advert gives a ****?! you see that? advert gives a toss! well... ola! original lost to marsh potatoes mash.
like i was led by a solomonic harem:
we're buggered;
to be honest.... hugh grant could have
said that better, and, would have facied him...
if he made that one film from my youth
about a damsel in distress... and the return
of charles II to england... the thing adam and the ants
imitated: highwayman no robin hood...
clean shaven like a daffodil in early spring frost
for the eye to peer into...
as it turns out, you write one great piece of work
and everyone applauses...
you write a thousand symphonies,
and everyone turns flame-eyed and forgets
your one spectacular moment, which
you take into hades and wish to forget given
the total output, when they mention that it
was all great, but so comes cousin critic and you
know that most of it was... a bit ****...
and because of that:
they tend to do better... they?
the ones that hit the banknote of a one song
wonder... and then receded into life,
and debated with gay peerage in some restaurant
akin to bridet jones' diary scenario,
and oh my oh my: the palpitations necessary
like make-up... i can almost see flamingos take to ballet!
and then it's back to *quack quack quack
of promenades in the park watching mallards...
original jealosy fades.... no, nothing else,
it just fades... which can feel a bit weird,
basically it, just, fades - i take to foot what people
take to: speeding down the a408 thinking
about tax; well yeah, i tax my feet with a mile, or two,
sometimes i take to the mile or two
with a different pair of shoe.
you a rhyming rhino too?
you write pachebel's canon,
you're going to compete with haydn's 103
symphony...
similar to a question: how many eggs am i
carrying in my basket?
dear reader, like i child i never fathered,
or like a dog i never petted,
or should i simply aim at: dear ego?
what unit i had and never thought with,
never mind the thought of?
the fact that you can't cry, is the reason
that you are depressed,
that's another statement that's worthwhile,
stating apathy as a misery
without tears, the original melan- -choly...
listen, i don't care because i don't want to,
i care about something that i want to care
about because thte things i would like to care about
i can't or don't want to,
so i take the "metaphor" (which means
half my hans zimmer is gone) that keeps
haydn's symphony no. 103 almost floating
above pachelbel's canon...
i'd love to miss out the second l...
and there, the ****** white, the doves,
the church, and... hail! the marching bride!
that feeling of consecration...
can you realise that newspapers are stink
compared to dust-affording books?
yep... newspapers are ****
compared to book... i kept a week's worth
of newspapers in my room, i realised
that it stank as if a cat ****** in my room...
when i listen to pachelbel i'm supposed to think
of kent, or devon, aren't i?
thumbs up essex oi oi!
halfway house out of 'ackney
or 'eckham...
oh right, right, like i was ever invited to a
marriage...
some 'un 'as to be the black sheep
of the family...
well... i hope she divorces aged 40 and has a miscarriage
aged 35... if i really wanted to give a toss...
i'd toss, a cricket 'ard ball of
mahogany cranium and make
believe that i was loved,
instead of receiving postcards from strangers...
living about a mile away...
so there i see pachelbel with his canon in D....
and there i see mozart, laughing in steppenwolf
as is worth citing:
i wrote so much ******* i just had to
tickle my ***** like a philosopher might ****** his
beard... if that answers your question:
they remember him for only one song,
and do so rightly,
me? i'm not quiet sure why they remember
me for a hundred.
it's like pachelbel is the *** pistols
and i'm the ramones, or the offspring,
or stiff little fingers... or the dread, ****!
green day?!
according to noel gallagher
who did say that never mind the *******
was something we didn't accomplish with his
oasis albums... even though back in the day...
on the european continent, no one sang anything
apart from oasis songs... you went to paris:
oasis... you taizé... oasis...
yes, what was, once, france... or frau hans...
and then the exagerration on the f....
like an alo alo alo episode...
that's basically what it sounds like....
pachelbel's pa-she-sha l fix it bell's
pashelbel's it's also half check in czech...
but that's what noel said akin to mozart:
to be honest? i'd rather just (have) written than canon in D
and ****** off; if i wrote more than that
i'd be anything but that spare prosthetic limb
for that one legged man, dancing at a party in Versailles.
like i was led by a solomonic harem:
we're buggered;
to be honest.... hugh grant could have
said that better, and, would have facied him...
if he made that one film from my youth
about a damsel in distress... and the return
of charles II to england... the thing adam and the ants
imitated: highwayman no robin hood...
clean shaven like a daffodil in early spring frost
for the eye to peer into...
as it turns out, you write one great piece of work
and everyone applauses...
you write a thousand symphonies,
and everyone turns flame-eyed and forgets
your one spectacular moment, which
you take into hades and wish to forget given
the total output, when they mention that it
was all great, but so comes cousin critic and you
know that most of it was... a bit ****...
and because of that:
they tend to do better... they?
the ones that hit the banknote of a one song
wonder... and then receded into life,
and debated with gay peerage in some restaurant
akin to bridet jones' diary scenario,
and oh my oh my: the palpitations necessary
like make-up... i can almost see flamingos take to ballet!
and then it's back to *quack quack quack
of promenades in the park watching mallards...
original jealosy fades.... no, nothing else,
it just fades... which can feel a bit weird,
basically it, just, fades - i take to foot what people
take to: speeding down the a408 thinking
about tax; well yeah, i tax my feet with a mile, or two,
sometimes i take to the mile or two
with a different pair of shoe.
you a rhyming rhino too?
you write pachebel's canon,
you're going to compete with haydn's 103
symphony...
similar to a question: how many eggs am i
carrying in my basket?
dear reader, like i child i never fathered,
or like a dog i never petted,
or should i simply aim at: dear ego?
what unit i had and never thought with,
never mind the thought of?
the fact that you can't cry, is the reason
that you are depressed,
that's another statement that's worthwhile,
stating apathy as a misery
without tears, the original melan- -choly...
listen, i don't care because i don't want to,
i care about something that i want to care
about because thte things i would like to care about
i can't or don't want to,
so i take the "metaphor" (which means
half my hans zimmer is gone) that keeps
haydn's symphony no. 103 almost floating
above pachelbel's canon...
i'd love to miss out the second l...
and there, the ****** white, the doves,
the church, and... hail! the marching bride!
that feeling of consecration...
can you realise that newspapers are stink
compared to dust-affording books?
yep... newspapers are ****
compared to book... i kept a week's worth
of newspapers in my room, i realised
that it stank as if a cat ****** in my room...
when i listen to pachelbel i'm supposed to think
of kent, or devon, aren't i?
thumbs up essex oi oi!
halfway house out of 'ackney
or 'eckham...
oh right, right, like i was ever invited to a
marriage...
some 'un 'as to be the black sheep
of the family...
well... i hope she divorces aged 40 and has a miscarriage
aged 35... if i really wanted to give a toss...
i'd toss, a cricket 'ard ball of
mahogany cranium and make
believe that i was loved,
instead of receiving postcards from strangers...
living about a mile away...
so there i see pachelbel with his canon in D....
and there i see mozart, laughing in steppenwolf
as is worth citing:
i wrote so much ******* i just had to
tickle my ***** like a philosopher might ****** his
beard... if that answers your question:
they remember him for only one song,
and do so rightly,
me? i'm not quiet sure why they remember
me for a hundred.
it's like pachelbel is the *** pistols
and i'm the ramones, or the offspring,
or stiff little fingers... or the dread, ****!
green day?!
according to noel gallagher
who did say that never mind the *******
was something we didn't accomplish with his
oasis albums... even though back in the day...
on the european continent, no one sang anything
apart from oasis songs... you went to paris:
oasis... you taizé... oasis...
yes, what was, once, france... or frau hans...
and then the exagerration on the f....
like an alo alo alo episode...
that's basically what it sounds like....
pachelbel's pa-she-sha l fix it bell's
pashelbel's it's also half check in czech...
but that's what noel said akin to mozart:
to be honest? i'd rather just (have) written than canon in D
and ****** off; if i wrote more than that
i'd be anything but that spare prosthetic limb
for that one legged man, dancing at a party in Versailles.
