"lycra" poems
she smells (nameless and shameless)
*a concoction of mixed aromas,
a once in a lifetime scent,
impossible to bottle,
impossible to name,
nameless and shameless
morning coffee, last nights vin rosé,
a come-a-little-closer-tasting for the summer solstice,
the stale of the evening meals of grains and kale,
the sour remains of bedroom sweat,
the displeasing scented sight of
sweat soiled clothes carelessly discarded
the first of the season red spot-stained white peonies
fail to mask the bodies aromatic musks,
which are mostly gender identifiable
my sneakers hail mary, her stockings odorize the atmosphere
most unusually, nylon and lycra are strangely familiar,
prior memorized perhaps, from deep within, a ****** hallelujah,
deep amidst where, the ***** linens are shelved and binned,
before they journey to the Egypt Nile of the basement waters
the burnt crumbs of illegal in-bed brioche toast
amazingly invisible on unclean sheets,
state “breakfast in bed, was yummy in the tummy,
but next time use a big dinner plate,
down here, the burnt of the bread and the burnt
of other things (popcorn pieces)
is just a scratchiest fragrance too far,
needing a sheet wiped clean slate
even the colorless and tasteless water
absorb the ionosphere of smells,
because one does usually speak poetically,
one of us makes a (vice) presidential declaration:
she smells, I man-ually stink, each,
each glower shower nower,
open the window to the spring wet grass aroma fresh cut,
to exhume and then send away
this odor now christened,*
nameless and shameless
11:47 28/4/19
May 5, 2019
May 5, 2019 at 10:25 AM UTC
(fictional tale of real beverages)
he sat at table number 9
she chose 10
their eyes never met
but only through the wall wide gilded mirror across the room
he thought her name was Faith
she guessed his was Luke
he took a sip from his mocha massimo every 41 secs
she guessed he was 41, slowly stirring her white-no-sugar earl grey
she wondered if the girl on page three of his 'Sun' was a blond, a brunette or a red head
he wondered what principle she's at in 'Why men love bitches'
they ate lemon and poppy seed muffins with small bites
his lips were firm
hers unable to hold on to the cheery blush lipstick any longer
he thought she was single and had a RSPCA rescued cat called Biscuit
she guessed he was married with three children and a wife called Porscha
she must be driving a Ka
he must be driving a Jag
she waters her plants every Tuesday, goes to pilates classes on Thursday and on Sundays she watches Terms of Endearment in her pink jumper with her friend Chris and a box of tissues
he walks his dog at 7, plays rugby for Long Lane on Saturdays and on Fridays goes for a pint of Guiness with his friend, Joe
he snores/ she sings in the shower
he's a catholic/ she never quite liked Jesus
he hates his wife/ she loves her cookies
they laugh at the old woman shouting at a bus driver in the street and hate gyms, cyclists in Lycra and anything to do with politics
they secretly read Keats, eat onion bagels and tomato soup and listen to Gershwin
*
they never spoke
they never will
because if they would
Faith would never be able to watch Star Wars again and Luke -
Luke would lose his faith in
love at first sight
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 9:52 AM UTC
got so drunk at their little, ahem, initiation ceremony: drank a bottle of whiskey when i heard we were going clubbing wearing lycra shorts... the man with the biggest bulge and the biggest stick... never understood male group psychology... or any group psychology for that matter... it isn't exactly a throng of noblemen following Henry VIII.
i joined the lacrosse university team
for a bit,
left it when the time came to buy the
equipment - i didn't think getting
smacked by the defenders' longer sticks
was worth it, to be a striker with the shortest
stick - too physical - i thought i'd seek
some other physicality,
got stuck-up on rock climbing, and mountaineering
for a while, nothing serious,
a bit of easy bouldering on the edinbrugh crag,
the one lining the skyline at holyrood park,
the salisbury crag, just west of arthur's seat -
i'm not going to lie about clinging off the
matterhorn or something -
but i did an expedition with the mountaineering
club near Ben Nevis once...
Glen Coe / Coire nan Lochan...
and i figured, with all this talk of light pollution,
well, "pollution", to think that a bunch of
street lamps can blind away the stars of what
former poets spoke of: about the illumination
of the heavens for the blind eye to see...
we camped outside one bothy (basic shelter)
set off fireworks, drank whiskey, played music,
burnt a fire in the bothy...
but to be honest... i was not amused by this whole
theory of light pollution...
i looked up at the sky, and the number of stars
was no greater than the number seen in a bright
lit city... i know they say all those telescopes
amplify the chance of peering into the heavens
at night and see more stars...
but why cite light pollution, when, in a remote
highland hideout the number of stars didn't
increase in number... i've heard a girl from
australia cite that, in the outback she said
more stars could be seen... even without a telescope...
so the scottish highlands are unlike the australian
outback? is it just me... or is it simply ********
this whole light pollution argument?
it was dark out there like in an **** after black coffee
and charcoal tablets.
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 6:45 PM UTC
Dedicated to Beverly & ?? [&c., &c., &c.]
[this poem contains multiple characters;
I didn't write any of it, but strangely, it's all true]
She was wearing black leather ankle boots
& torn fishnet stockings;
The top was black and sleeveless,
w/ fishnet covering her stomach
up to the frayed hem of the fabric of the shirt;
All around the room there was a buzz of voices,
all the people seeming a whirl of fishnet stockings,
bright makeup & colorful costumes;
Strutting across the stage removing fishnet stockings,
her long silky legs drawing all the attention;
She was wearing a black tank top,
red tartan mini-skirt w/ fishnet tights & black
leather, knee high boots; Her hair was long
& deep purple & her short skirt
revealed a shaved snooch & gorgeous legs clad in fishnet stockings;
The black fishnet top, and the tight t-shirt
with the skull on it were quite perfect for the occasion;
I opened my eyes and found myself staring up at the pair of legs
in knee high boots & red fishnet stockings
beneath a red and white schoolgirl skirt [the woman wearing them old
enough to be my grandmother]. PVC, fishnet,
rubber, Lycra, velvet & lace
were worked into corsets, coats & masks; Finally she settled on a black corset dress,
her skull necklace & black combat boots
that went up to her shin & black fishnet tights;
She stomped her way across the room,
grabbed me painfully by the arms
w/ her black fishnet sleeves
& ruffled collar shirt & planted a kiss on me;
she wore black fishnet stockings & stilettos
that wobbled underneath her feet as she stepped;
She then stepped into a long
black skirt, and w/out much effort,
managed to get into her black fishnet stockings;
I pulled out a black long dress,
black fishnet stockings & see-through undershirt;
but she was already dressed in a short denim skirt,
black fishnet stockings and high red sandals,
& she was wearing a blood red tank top,
black miniskirt & fishnet stockings;
She was fairly small, about 5 ft. even,
appearing only slightly tall in sling-back stilettos
& fishnet stockings w/ a red tube top
w/ black mesh on top of it;
I looked down at her short tartan skirt
& bare feet in fishnet stockings, her black nail polish
looking good, so was her ripped black tank top:
I gathered the long dress in one hand,
pulling the material up as far as her waist,
revealing the black fishnet stocking tops
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 1:33 AM UTC
**The fairest hair, peroxide blond
beer shampoo feeding the roots
primped and pinned with paperclips
blown and set as candyfloss sticks.
Hydro-pack cream erasing the pouches
colourful lashes, stuck to the lids
with copyright brows by electrolysis
both almond eyes are now penciled in.
Lines of life filled with putty
trowelled in layers, foundations built
delicate cheeks, powdered, pampered
rouged and shaded, giving them youth.
Clinical lips, Botox injected
tattooed outlines guiding the brush
the budding artist colours by numbers
pouting, she paints in weatherproof gloss.
Turtleneck sweater hiding the wrinkles
genuine paste, drawing the eye
both purl and knit-one inside the jumper
pulled and snagged by glued on nails.
High heel shoes, stretching the sinews
of Lycra clad legs, holding them taut
a girdle of whalebone hugging the figure
gently molding, the form to behold.
With grace we age throughout the years
a time filled life, craves respect
hairs of grey are marks of distinction
an occasional blemish, a beauty spot.
Tiny crow's feet, signs of good humour
experience of life, lines proudly worn
for with laughing eyes and glowing smile
who need wear a plasticine face.**
... ... ...
Apr 30, 2011
Apr 30, 2011 at 12:15 AM UTC
(Give me a London girl every time…)
*- I want to push my hands into your hips and smack you back to front against the wall, bunching your **** little skirt in my fingers, unclipping those fifties plastic beauties that cling to your thighs and I want you to be a right proper girl for me, a right proper girl -*
(…I’m gonna find one, I’ve made up my mind…)
So she got her phone out and
Smiled her Madonna-Gap smile,
Fine lines floundering
Like speech marks
Either side of her mouth.
So romantic!
A girl with a face of
Punctuation!
***** pennies,
she said,
Your eyes are
*****
*******
Pennies*
She would finger the holes
In my tatterdemalion
Charity coats,
And my shop-bought medals.
She would jab her fingers
Against each point
Of the Burma Star,
Spookily,
As though it were a
Pentagram.
She’s a washboard,
Her ******* are thumb-tacks
In a cosmetic shade of
Gold,
With a crucifix stamped
Like a dagger glyph
Right between them,
like a silver sneer,
on her precious metal chest.
*- I want to take your photo -
I want you in Pippi Longstockings
And to angle you just so, my no-knickered **** with her goosebumps on show -*
I’ll never forgot when she told me
She owned a leopard-skin
Pill-box hat ,
And I said
* “You’d have to be dead
Not to fancy that…”*
I’m not sure how aware she is though,
Of how many people
Tongue- to- the -floor want her.
She plays bored on purpose!
I’ve watched beautiful boys
Go to pieces
Trying to entertain her
With a curly straw.
She’s a real cheekbone feline,
And around her pupils
Rages a ring of jagged orange,
Like a jester’s ruff.
And I think of all this,
Whilst she stands there,
Moving from toe to toe
In her zig-zag heels,
And wooden bracelets,
And her little lycra
Landmine that
Shop assistants sell
To girls like her.
And then she clocks me.
and she doesn’t say a thing -
she just swims smilingly over
Through a parted gaggle,
Letting me grab her
Like I mean it,
Spanning her waist with my
Hands like
A corset -
And the fairylights
Are just smudges
Across her sequins,
And her mottled shoulders are
Ten shades
Of mostly white.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 9:35 AM UTC
There's sweetness in the crisp of morning
There's promise at the start of day,
Bird song in the trees about me
Heralds life and all's OK !
Howling down the hill on cycle
Feel the blast of wind on face
Give a yell of joy for living
Age on bike and bike at pace!
Sunshine falls upon the meadow
Flowers bobbing in the breeze,
Pukekos with tails a-bouncing
Sheep graze on with studied ease.
Spraying gravel in my corners
Pedals pump as fast as can,
Huffing, puffing, loving morning
"Hello" to a jogging man.
Wheel the bike around the corner
Grind these pedals up the hills
Winding down to see the shore birds
Flock to land with squarking bills.
Young girls laughing, dark eyes dancing
Striding down the foreshore track,
Fresh loveliness in lycra shorts,
They laugh and wave, I wave right back.
Happiness in brilliant morning
Cycling to a sweaty stop,
Relaxing under shady awning
Love my favourite coffee shop.
Marshalg
@the estuary
Mangere Bridge
13 February 2010
Feb 12, 2010
Feb 12, 2010 at 12:02 PM UTC
Perfect with gravity
fuji-like mountain
above which hangs heaven
star full and bursting
beside which she sits with a mouth full of flattery
quipping alacrities with ease
'you’re a man with a very smooth shirt’, she says
‘thank you’, he replies almost inaudibly
The breeze brushes an inner thigh with its lycra tongue
she shimmers
like a clear-lake breeze kissed
He grows to become a campfire on her shores
she laps at his embers
reflecting and flickering
He encompasses the perimeter with stealth
Sniffs the wind for fear and for warning
none comes
they bathe naked, ever watchful, for
a shift in the rushes, for the
fish in their sleep,
for the shadows
in the deep
not yet awakened.
MChallis © 2015
Jan 14, 2015
Jan 14, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
A Cerulean precipice grows
wrinkles. Blouses scatter into oblivion.
Rusty chain, in the room with no time.
Tea-kettles antagonize moonlit lovers.
Shotglasses chase, through ghastly cornstalks.
Cascading lights speak incantation.
Flash dance to late night serenades.
Phoenix plumes in Sunday hats.
Laying poolside, argyle splashes.
A magnetic lioness creeps.
Daring glances spread gossamer lies.
Alabaster halls consume infant minds, while
Dusty caps unlock elusive touches.
Black widows drink white wine.
Anise waters drown lycra mermaids.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 1:15 AM UTC
the air is crisp
as i sit on the front
verandah, snuggled up
in wooly hoodie, flannel
pyjamas and ugg boots
hands wrapped around
a large mug of steaming
coffee
watching those with more
enthusiasim, than nouse
riding up the hill in bright
lycra body suits.
the weekend pelaton rides
on to wherever.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 7:05 PM UTC
I could think of many swear words to express my
profound distress at the need to work again
Such a normal thing to have to do and yet
I turn against me
I'd rather be doing other things,
Wouldn't we all?
Your words still wound me and I'm supposed to forget them
What a tough time this is
All my flaws suddenly turn technicolor
They're all I see, all my mother would see
You have taken her place and I want you to love me
What a joke. Really when I can walk on water she will love me.
And so will you. But those moments that filled me with rapture
I had your positive attention, and I was was floating.
It was an illusion. I was the one forgiving my flaws
I was the one suddenly appreciating me
I was the one feeling useful and worthy
You were just standing there, giving me a flash
of your time and no more because you are basically stingy
So today, I felt like such a loser but I asked a cute swim coach
about the Master's work-outs and I could join
Me who only swims because of a lifetime of bad knees
But there are men of all ages thrashing about in the pool
Walking out for the world to see in the Speedos
And I look up for a breath of a breastroke and I see what lies underneath the lycra
So, honestly, it would be a social, healthy, motivating kind of thing
If I am worthy of it, if I can forgive my out of shapeness and lack of technique
The men, bare chested, some with hair, some not, all nearly naked
swimming back and forth and then chattering about their man lives
One more piece of motivation
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 9:37 PM UTC
a concoction of mixed aromas,
a once in a lifetime scent,
impossible to bottle,
impossible to name,
nameless and shameless
morning coffee, last nights vin rosé,
a come-on tasting for the summer coming,
the stale of the evening meals of grains and kale,
the sour remains of bedroom sweat,
the displeasing scented sight of
sweat soiled clothes carelessly discarded
the first of the season red stained white peonies
fail to mask the bodies aromatic musks,
which are gender identifiable
my sneakers hail mary, her stockings odorize the atmosphere
most unusually, nylon and lycra are strangely familiar,
prior memorized perhaps, from deep within,
deep amidst where, the ***** linens are shelved and binned,
before they journey to the Egypt of the basement
the burnt crumbs of illegal brioche toast
hidden on unclean sheets,
state “breakfast in bed,
is yummy in the tummy,
but next time use a big dinner plate,
down here, the burnt of the bread and the burnt
of other things is just a fragrance too far
even the colorless and tasteless water
absorb the ionosphere of smells,
because one does usually speak poetically,
make a vice presidential declaration:
she smells, I manually stink, each, glower shower, nower,
open the window to the spring wet grass,
exhume and send away this odor now christened,
nameless and shameless
11:47 28/4/19
Apr 28, 2019
Apr 28, 2019 at 11:51 AM UTC
*my my, ain't it June?! Juno, why have you given these poor people snowballs?! it's June and my central heating is on, it's close to 10 degrees Celsius, Bavaria is flooded, people embraced Einstein's relativity of the collapse of the = sign using a parabola, forgetting the basic Newtonian: cause & effect - the moment i coupled Socratic abhorrence of moral relativism, i took to dislike relativism kindred of: claustrophobia and agoraphobia... at some point Einstein's relativity equates space as time, rather than what Newton would suggest trans linear: algebraic squared, Newton still resides in cause & effect, space = ~space, given: 1 = millimetre, kilometre, and any other division... likewise with time... 20th century fashion being the perfect crop of quantum plagiarism, although in the 21st century the dance loop jumping between decades, back in the 20th century a linear expression, an evolution; quantum physics doesn't deal with linear excavations necessarily repeated, it's just repeats what is unnecessary. global warming and the mini ice age, June's here, Einstein too, Newton too, relatively speaking we're aether imprints... speaking via causality we're leaving a carbon footprint - well, **** me, two plus two... it's still scientific negativism, dietary requirements of modern man overshadowed all the scientific progresses in the field... never mind the cure for cancer! never mind that! as long as we can dress a diabetic in Lycra for bariatric surgery - never had i had i heard of such gastronomy, should it have been a pork chop smoked using zyklon B.*
we are living in the age of scientific negativism,
atheism a third limb
and our existential concerns reduced to
hamsters, calories and treadmills:
the basis of all modern inquisitiveness /
Aristotelian awe reduced to rubrics of dieticians
rather than theologians: at least with the latter
we could see the simple mind, hunched
in prayer... with the former we are experiencing
robots repeating the daily 2000 Kcal intake requirement
for a flat stomach... honestly, i prefer the praying
type, than the type regurgitating facts concerning
their diet - at least the former state of affairs
kept them shut up and mumbling, gesticulating
a type of shadow boxing while befriending
Jacob wrestling with an angel - at least that!
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 7:49 PM UTC
Sky was gray as witches' old,
No quarter given, none taken by the cold.
Summer's song chased by gentle north breeze,
Replaced by stark, hard, white freeze.
Running tights bought several sizes too small,
Confident they will fit come winter's call.
Between **** shorts that hid wet, hot summer cheeks,
Feeling lucky, I might give you a peek.
Soft, tight black lycra slips over curves hard as stone,
Gaze at the mirror, this body, my own.
Thin, tight fabric chases away your fantasy,
Body sculpted by air, sun, and sweat, no artificial symmetry.
Chiseled by hundreds of miles running and swimming, gallons of sweat,
Tummy hard, pancake flat, no regrets.
In the mirror, my hard body I see,
Feel your envy, your resentment, fuel for me.
Rocket fuel to propel me out this morn,
Cold biting air, but I won't be torn.
Used to hate you, now energy's mine,
Run and swim longer, leave you in the grime.
Through your cars, your scowls, I see,
Just chafing sports bras, nothing to me.
Open the door, cold air slaps my face,
Air ****** from lungs, blood rushes to the pace.
Feel alive, your malice pushes me on,
Cold air invades every orifice, and I am gone.
I slap my cold, tight, little, *** and whisper – you can't touch this.
Nov 29, 2024
Nov 29, 2024 at 6:24 PM UTC
the walker, bends,
her lycra-clad hips,
to check her addidas laces.
she has walked,
many, many miles
in this life.
all, in the pursuit,
of the, body beautiful.
and now, has the
musculsture,
of an aged chicken.
all string and rope,
under sagging skin.
she breathes deeply,
sips, from a metalic bottle
and begins,
the downward journey,
into the unenviable,
inevitablity of ageing.
she smiles and
gives me a cheery wave,
as she passes on by.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 7:58 PM UTC
before the day the night retires
black tucked in by dawn's pale fingers
lifting a cover of sun
across damp sands
evaporating patterns withdraw to shore.
needle arms salute the clouds
trails of lycra ants
empty heads
from reds and whites
the week's download & lick of salt
night blanket gone
new slate to paint
scene of beacons & vessels floating
seawall haven
man on a board paddles the current
drifting a distance
in reach of shore
Mar 26, 2015
Mar 26, 2015 at 7:14 AM UTC
Small triangles of lycra
cover heaven
in this tanned landscape
of flesh
basking like beached seals
under the god sun
worshipped for its power
through the protection of lotions
and creams, keeping
cancerous skin at bay
grains of sand
smashed from rock
innocently hide nature's power
all around
bodies dipped into an ocean
already polluted
by greed and the impurity
of this impossible dream
the tide plays with them
like a cat with a mouse
knowing full well with one pounce
all would perish
the earth tolerates our blindness for now
but before you dip a toe in the water
know this
you will be washed away like the
castles you make, pretending
you have dominion
over this sleeping monster.
Jul 13, 2019
Jul 13, 2019 at 12:44 PM UTC
In dreams, I live thinking of you as I leave my deep sleep, wonderful REM sleep, nearly awake,
Deep as glory chasm, pleasure filled and sumptuous, wonderful image of lovely,lush candy coloured clouds,
Aw shucks,
Oooh, put away those rose-tinted specs again, just phantoms at play,
Stupid ****** woman, she's one hell of a woman ,are or at least, so I was told !
Witches and ******* woman all on the take, make of that sad suggestion, whatever you like,
Those flamin' heart strings are elastic, as lycra spring loaded, ****** drastic,
Oh here we go, up and down, roller coaster of love's essence captured me again!
Bang, deck hit, oh s**t!
In dreams I'm laying curled up as vulnerable, miniscule, lost innocent, sweet soul at rest,
Convincing you that belonging is supreme in being rather than being lost in diversionary excuses of self inflicted
solitude!
Virtual madness, in fantasy!
Tortured by long gone spirits morose, whose purpose is torture, sad souls, destroying the world of belief in life,
is for the living,
In dreams, what will you find, perchance, me haunting recesses deep in your head,
Guess, that's the only way I can share your bed!
Copyright Livvi 07/04/2013.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 6:50 PM UTC
I have invented a sport called Yogates,
What, indeed, is this, if you please?
Why, for you, it is inertia, you see,
You lie under a blanket, only breathe,
You wear what you like in Yogates,
A steady state of not doing,
No, you are not doing Yoga or jogging,
In cute couture like shorties,
You are not swimming in pool or sea,
No chlorination fever for thee or me,
No lycra or spandex triathletes,
No marathons for fluoro funnies,
So, this is multi age or gender, see,
Yes, all you do is lie there and breathe,
Now you can opt to do Yogates,
Or not, it is not compulsory!
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 6:05 PM UTC
poetry and philosophy can only teach ethics with systematisation, with systemising itself as itself and nothing off itself requiring replicas of art: of acting to suit the scientific concern for cloning or computerisation of analysis with being artificial in the quotient of intelligence expressed via the infinite synthesises of care, miscarriage and history; both subjects care for ethics - both care for linear allegiance to the ancient greek flux to permit infinite multiplication of change and changes, along with the additions and the desertions... obelisk adds to the addition, the algebraic multi- adds to the hyphenating minus compounding, paradoxically. well, carelessly the testimonies gave windows the narcissus effect... and the mirrors the antidote of thinned air vampirism of h. g. wells' plot.
1st. hello is about a blind girl
sculpting a head with a charlie chap' moustache...
2nd. hello is about a deaf girl
versing the telephone into violin vibrations;
both are fun-fuck-as-hell
given i'm the one in lycra-spandex and botox
friendly mode on stage, as
the exploiting artist.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 9:43 PM UTC
As we walk the blazing black asphalt,
manicured and graded for modern passage,
we can scarcely imagine these same footsteps,
trod by General McClellan and traversed
by the very fugitives that he fought to free.
The civil peace was broken when the machinery came,
ripping railroad ties and spikes from her gut,
erasing and smothering the Confederate footsteps,
gentrifying the mud for our convenience,
replaced by the smooth tar of unification.
This new Mason-Dixon did not divide peoples;
it conected communities.
Now on our bikes we don our spandex and lycra in Alexandria -
no shoveling of coal for this engine -
with a sip of our energy elixir,
whizzing over the Sycolin bridge and past Tuscarora Creek,
quickly turning around in Purcellville for the return trip.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 2:24 PM UTC
The dim glow illuminates my face
as I search for the perfect playsuit, perfect dress
or something. Something beautiful.
And everything is. Colours and elastane,
polyester, nylon, lycra.
Peplum, bodycon, strapless.
But the models are all size six,
and you must be pretty to wear a pretty dress.
I'm going to spend a week's wages
on this ******* wedding outfit,
and if you're not impressed
I'm going to ram a slice of cake down your throat
and smile, and catch the **** bouquet.
Will you look at me? Look at me!
I'm a sad, pathetic wreck.
I want to mark my territory. Your neck
will speak for itself.
Will say that I've been there before.
This perfect dress I'm searching for
to be left crumpled on your bedroom floor.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 5:07 PM UTC
O’ world curious traveller,
Atop the Millenium bridge,
I know St Paul’s is so beautiful,
But try and keep an eye on your kids.
O’ delicious corona,
You look so divine, I’ll admit.
But why are you a whole ******* tenner?!
Are these guys all taking the ****
O’ lost Northern bumbler,
Trying ‘down saaaaaath’ for a bit,
Stop standing to the left of the escalator,
You're destroying the system you *****
O’ impatient young cycler,
Dressed in tight lycra and ****
You’re going to try and squeeze through those buses?
You’re a ******** for thinking you’ll fit.
O’ excited tube takers,
Your theatrical energy is lit,
But please stop singing in unison,
All should be silent this trip.
To live in this concrete jungle,
You’ll pay extortionate rent for a pit,
But at least you’ll be living the high-life,
Oh wait? I’m poor. And depressed.
Aug 12, 2019
Aug 12, 2019 at 4:01 PM UTC