"tenner" poems
Thin and crispy, round and flat
A staple of the proletariat
Two for a tenner
It makes you wonder
And delivered to your door on the back of a Honda.
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
Sunk in my armchairI stare from the gloomThe never-ending soundOf cars that drift onWith minds on the roadAnd eyes straight aheadCash register for mileageChing ching in their head-If stripped of the clothingAre we all just the sameWe want to be themTo be part of this gameAnd the cars that drift onWith their badges of wealthThese tokens of greatnessMuch better than mine-Once I was partOf this greed that we wantBut now I am nothingSomeone that just hopesMy boys birthdays comingHow much would it costTo bring smiles to his faceWithout knowing the lossYet who will sufferAs my daughter is nextAnd kids have no boundariesWhen friends have the best-And people with moneyNow scorn on my lifeTo some I’m a scroungerWhilst dodging tax with their perksThose LLP peopleWho employ mystery wivesAnd lie on their tax billsTo hoard cash for their lives-A tenner for cleaningAn old boys flatBuys cake for my kidsAs a one off treatYet who is more guiltyOf conning the stateAs I sit in my armchairAnd cars drive on past
Feb 27, 2010
Feb 27, 2010 at 11:31 PM UTC
Bridget the ******
the dwarf who loves *******
Bridget the ******
she comes when she's *******
She'll open her short legs
for a tenner or so,
and if you pay less
she'll still have a go.
She loves a good *******
both active and passive;
Believe me, her botty
-hole is quite massive.
Bridget's a goer,
always ready for more;
She's a fat ugly ******
and a little fat *****
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 7:38 AM UTC
Words…..because words are all I have……..:) Edgar
endearments generosity incantatory new sagacity surprise heresy dissipation violating abyss language warning culminates dalack obdurate serving waiter ossuary occurrences tortured beware silence calm bow physiognomy paucity occurrence exegeses transmogrification effectuation Adjunctive dairy tenure contention tenner reins happy indomitable, connoisseur artifice concatenation vivacity voluptuous solemnity enigmatic burdened glorious line huge……………………some I made myself…..:) Edgar
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 4:07 PM UTC
I want to win the lotto
I want to win some dosh
I'm fed up of no money
I want to win the lot
I do all of me numbers each and every week
I'm lucky if a tenner comes falling at me feet
they say its one in lots and lots but I don't really care
cos all i want to say to you is I'm a millionaire
been saying this for so long now my mates think I'm all mad
this time its gonna be my night... I am the lucky lad
so when you see some flash new car go zipping by your eyes
you'll know the person in it its me with fortune pie
Ill share all of my wealth with friends and family from afar
a charity so close to me a tear that breaks my heart
a set up for a life of good and free of bills to pay
a golden ticket full of dreams today that is my day
May 8, 2012
May 8, 2012 at 3:48 PM UTC
I’m Oxfam clothed and head full of henna,
he’s Age Concern dressed for less than a tenner.
Does this make us rivals or more compatible?
Anything’s possible now I’m out of hospital,
picking his path oblivious to obstacles,
catching him in an unguarded interval;
he’s too hospitable to swerve my tentacles
and I too intent on the prey.
“What’s with the titfer?” I bubble up giggly,
kissing his cheek and trying his trilby,
holding his eyes – why should I feel guilty?
If he’ll play Jesus lurking in Gethsemane
then I’ll be Judas flirting with the enemy.
Don’t say betrayal and the double agent,
I’m just a female at my play station.
He used to be nurse and I the patient,
now we negotiate new relations.
Aspiring to more of an equal footing
I’ve climbed too high and abandoned hoodies,
the dreary woollies, sackcloth and ashes,
the words that stuck to my tongue like glue.
Between heavy make-up and credit crashes
I talk too naughty and hug too warmly –
he must take his turn to be poorly,
his turn to breathe in blue.
In minutes the mood will be mellowing:
I shall saxophone and cello him
and proffer the charms of poor scarred arms,
the burnt flesh of thighs and *******
this sin within my second-hand dress
to caress his heart and capture him.
Wind and string go enrapturing!
Pull him close to the edge of the abyss –
I want him to hang on my lips
as I’ve hung so long on his.
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 12:39 PM UTC
Maybe there are other people like us,
scraping £2.50 to get the night bus.
Requiring time,
but never a sign of love lost.
So when I wake up,
I look for the nearest shake up.
Wiping off your girlfriends make up,
because nothing will ever stop us.
Sending penetrating shivers,
an ecstasy like gold rush.
Back to sipping Hennessey,
making the girls blush but there ain’t no fuss,
‘coz the girls lost coming at a big cost,
as I plan the beginning the end and sub-plot.
Daym this girls hot but she don’t like ***
if I don’t deliver man get shot.
Left 6ft under to rot, while my babies crying in her cot,
something the government planned,
straight to the source of another blood clot.
Unbelievable feeling’s that came from us,
but nothing was going to stop that bus
so don’t cause a fuss, head up and believe in trust.
If you could see me now, then you’d understand
two bags short of tenner, another pocket with ten grand.
Thinking about street corners, the place where it started,
going way back now, before my mother departed.
Family distraught, the horizon broken hearted.
Taking into account, the past and what’s it done,
I must face the consequences and what’s ahead to come.
It isn’t going to be fun, but I can’t turn and run,
believe in fate so the future doesn’t appear glum.
Then we call a peace treaty, and lay down our gun.
Apr 5, 2012
Apr 5, 2012 at 5:19 AM UTC
I remember walking back from school
the tenner for the bus ride in my pocket
There would be a row over why I had taken so long
But I'd gulp the sondesh down, and it'd be forgotten
The grey haired proprietor of the sweetmeat store
wore a perennial smile on his face
And sometimes I wondered if he had ever been sad
How could he with those sweets on his silver trays?
I learned to grasp the concept of gravity
when a piece of sweetmeat went down my throat
And then a lesson on quick mathematics
when the shopkeeper stretched his palm for what I owed
But sadly the chemistry book had no formula for me
to turn sugar and milk to that special treat
The report card was skewed, and the scolding that ensued
Was only remediated by my favourite sweet
Jul 23, 2019
Jul 23, 2019 at 1:56 PM UTC
1. Understand Weather.
(Strangers on a bench,
Looking up.)
“Cirrus, I think.
Cirrocumulus?”
“Stratus surely.
Or altocumulus.”
(You must also hate the cold
And the sun,
And always wish the current season
Was a different one.)
2. Never Be Honest About Stuff That Hurts.
Pain so bad
Can’t even **** –
“How are you, Arthur?”
“Brilliant, thanks!”
3. Have An Opinion On These People
Katie Price (Feminist? Witch?)
Kate Moss (Goddess? *****
Stephen Fry (Snob? Wilde?)
Frankie Boyle (Offensive? Mild?)
4. Never Talk About Money.
“So.” An American asks. “How much do ya make?”
“I…I…Oh My God look at that dog over there that has a face like a pancake!”
5. Learn How To Apply The Class System To Cigarettes.
Pipe – Monty Withnail
Silk Cut – Comfortably Middle.
Lucky Strikes – Probably not British.
B&H; – Shops at Lidl.
6. Secretly (Or Openly) Enjoy The Royal Family
“So, did you hear what they called the baby?”
My boyfriend shrugs and says -
“I don’t give one tiny ****
“They named him George. Isn’t that twee?”
“Aw ******* hell, I had a tenner on Louis!”
7. Hey Jude.
If all else fails,
At the end of the night,
Sing na-na-na
And it’ll be alright.
8. Never Complain About Your Meal
“Hm. These mussels look a bit suspect.”
“How’s your meal, Sir?”
“Perfect!”
9. Always Hate The French, (Even If Your Own Mother Is French)
Numberplate 'F'
On an articulated lorry.
“Stuck up…onion…bastards.”
(I’m sorry mum, I’m so sorry!)
10. ‘Jerusalem’
Mime a sword in your hand,
Bang your chest with devotion,
Wave the sword about,
Sing with emotion.
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 10:35 AM UTC
Rubber soled trainers broke the brick
Like the boom of the people tether the streets
Tight strapped caps wander and roam
Strolling the daylight for a place of their own
Screeching and whirring filling the room
Monoxide smog frogs that cling to their moulds
We the people; hardened in soul
A splash in the distance tearing a hole
Enoch and Edna turn in their grave
Darkened cobble flattened; all glazed
Mirrors and cladding click into place
A village that weeps, constant refined
Express the formidable now done and alone
Never your own
EST marks the alleys; so nuanced, so cool
If you knew the truth; that's a tenner!
You fool
Jun 7, 2020
Jun 7, 2020 at 5:18 AM UTC
How to make friends over a beer
How to make any modest room beautiful with fairy lights
How to consecutively loose three university ID cards, replace them and then simultaneously find all three misplaced cards in the bottom of the same bag.
How to blag your way onto the university bus without ID
How to make a family out of your friends
When to give constructive criticism.
When to hit the cafeteria for discounted lunch items
When to let house mates off for making the kitchen a **** tip
When to realise that the reason your soreen cake keeps going missing from you food cupboard is not in fact because there are some soreen cake loving mice, it is in fact just your house mate who “just thought you weren’t going to eat it”
When to plant an onion in hopes of an onion tree.
Where to kick a corrugated door for a taxi
Where to get the best tray of jalapeños
Where to get a magic tenner
Where to sit in the lecture hall so you could only be partially seen
Where to find your confidence
Knowing I’ll never be able to pay off my university debt
But knowing it was priceless
Feb 24, 2021
Feb 24, 2021 at 5:05 AM UTC
that bankroll of notes changing
train pistons into traffic cones
and brief loves into marriages
with the motherly continues, but
ended up, just being, a roll of toilet paper
that could buy you **** for ink
or ink for a bestseller that ended up a door stump for a housed breeze.
but she loved it, she took the story of pristine eden
and her the satan like a camcorder with selfies
readied into recycling a pretty face
that everyone wanted to fudge into snorkel in a sea of gag white;
so i took to the monk ape for inspiration for levitation
and i rooted into a child being the: bullied anorexic lexicon,
the all rounded a*
tenner for a teenager housebound into being schooled
for a grey of officiated scrubbing of papers into
business.
i loved it, i had my midlife crisis without a harley
and i faked myself as a dodo fearing man’s fear of death
more than the unexpected extinction of my fellow species,
which i took to be fearless.
so once i experienced caesar’s love of spontaneity and death,
the last two things i feared were homelessness
and a prolonged state of dying utilising morphine
from april till june,
that’s why i never changed surgery,
never wanted to check the cholesterol or blood pressure
acting like a virus i asked to attack my heart
with marginalised debriefings - if i prayed
for the herz blitzkrieg right i also got a heartbeat prior.
Oct 1, 2015
Oct 1, 2015 at 8:59 PM UTC
A flower girl tried to sell me a flower
picked from my own garden
a thin starving guttersnipe dressed so dour
my seldom emphatic heart granted my pardon
I gave her a tenner for the red rose
and told her to "keep the change"
she, now the subject of my next poetic prose
about the girl who makes my heart feel strange
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 3:14 PM UTC
i might be cruel at times, but one thing is for sure: truth always is, esp. when drinking.
i find the concept of the "rhetorical" question slightly
bewildering,
it's simple enough -
whenever a "rhetorical" question is asked
you rarely hear a counter -
the person asking the "rhetorical" question
in all instances continues the "conversation" -
by a rhetorical question i'm sure the implication
states (as asked): that i invite you into
the discussion - and, from what i've heard or seen,
that's rarely the case!
why ask a rhetorical question when only
the rhetorician asking the question is the only
person answering it?
the smug punctuation mark and cliche that
a "rhetorical" question has become is just that,
a semicolon in a monologue...
how about asking a solipsistic question?
you know, pierce the membrane, get someone
out of their head, out of the pronoun
hemisphere - and into: hey, john, what's your
take on it?
to ask a persuading question to later add
that it is a "persuading" question, does not
really invoke a persuasive counter answer -
this entire "rhetorical" question is a pompous
double-under-cut against dialectical fluidity -
fuck's sake, people had to found debating societies
to speak in godot's terms,
and as ever, a man in his 30s and a man in
his 70s, and a park bench,
is all it takes to be civil...
obviously the 30s man asking permission
of the 70s man if he can continue drinking
his beer and smoking a cigarette.
rhetorical my ***
just say it plainly: it's not a question,
it's a self-empowering answer -
to continue the monologue -
there is no such thing as a "rhetorical" question,
simply because once the "question" is asked,
it's swept under the carpet -
because whenever a rhetorical "question"
is asked, it's embedded in a quick-answer dynamic
of the person making such a bogus request...
no one has ever answered a "rhetorical" question,
simply because the only person who can
answer such a question, is the rhetorician himself...
codswallop... that's what it is...
it's also called the barometer tactic of
checking if you're insane, when you talk to yourself
when you're alone...
hazelnuts 'n' all...
by the way... you want to stage a horror movie
scene? have a drink, no, have lots of drinks,
drink the whole **** bottle of wine...
but! but...
have a mirror in front of you -
nothing shows as much truth as a drunk
narcissus -
then again, if it was a puddle of *****
do you think he would have fallen in love
with his visage?
like any mug of a man after five pints and
six shots later: she was a 4 when i began,
but now? she's a tenner, an alsatian stunner!
oh right, they always say: it's not a rhetorical
question... so?
it's not really a question at all,
is it?
it's a self-serving answer...
and that always seemed to bother me,
why ask a question you already know
the answer to? oh, right: to gain rhetorical
momentum, and double-up on hushing
the oppositional argument.
Sep 22, 2017
Sep 22, 2017 at 11:26 AM UTC
Take the pavement into town,
over bridges, galleries and pain exhibits.
Sip beer on your own;
a bottle into the half glass,
before sinking into that spectator's chair.
Slip a tenner to the homeless man.
You don't know why,
but his face felt like wisdom.
You take off your jacket in the sun,
beneath the underpass as notebooks
pound together in your black messenger bag.
Take a fantasy to heart,
collect images of her and her soft music.
Allow the melodies their art.
Their art of fogging reality,
of allowing one to appear as they are not.
Keep you thoughts on the banister,
safe from the fall of pleading into old dreams.
Wilt before the kaleidoscope
of all adopted memories,
the time you bathed Christ beside Olympus Mons.
Ride the ghost train to the present,
past the infidels and terrorists of truth.
Never fear that fear of consequence,
of tomorrows lived in yesterdays,
of appreciating life,
yet forgetting to live.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
Im dressed in rags but I'm made of riches, promise
I'm the insurance man, a timetabler
Wake me from my slumber,
I'll give you a tenner, doctor, mother,
Double pain relief, those blasted tablets
****** liqueur sent me to sleep.
Chemically numbing,
My dad's never hugged me you know
Old time copper threw me
In the lock-up for stealing liquor.
I'm the self fulling prophecy
Hoping for childish deliverance
Some like it hot I like it cold like a copper coin dropped into my pocket.
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 10:20 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
The year. 1562. The place. Fort. Caroline. , We. Have found in the Americas. a dry herb
With cane and earthen cup , they smoke it through the cane thereof .
September. 2016 .
Dear. Doctor. ,
I. Think I'm. a. chimney. ,
my lungs stacked high with bricks,
With N H S. guide lines full of ***** tricks. .
Weened from inside my mothers womb ,
the sweet smell of nicotine my mothers. Perfume .
How it smelt from inside my Pram mother and I went a. Shopping .
Then from the back of our car ,
as we drove far ,
that. Smell with Windows. ajar. ,
from the back of our car .
How I. Looked up to. Father. ,
When we went to the shops ,
*** in hand ,
One day I'll be a man ,
With *** in hand like he .
Hanging outside Londis ,
talking to strangers. ,
A. Packet. For a. Tenner for me ?
Dear. Doctor.
I. Think. I'm. a. Steam train ,
Cough. Phlegm ,
Cough. Phlegm. ,
Cough. Phlegm ,
Cough. Phlegm .
...........
Now I. Have my N H S. Bed. With family all around ,
My C O J D. breathing ap at my side .
My. Coughing a. Coffin now ,
I'm. Early for my funeral
Friends and family. all. around .
". he liked his Cigarettes. "
". Long time dead
Could have been knocked down by a bus " they said .
Coughing. , coughing , coffin .
,
Sep 3, 2016
Sep 3, 2016 at 7:38 AM UTC
it's only ever sensible to point out
classism for the english...
given the hierarchy of... genesis: crown...
it's not like there
was ever an arrived at cromwellian
republicanism... ever!
there's a need to posit:
a shadow is an extension of the body...
best visible come noon...
the shadow is never
an invitation to replace the body...
beside there being a noon...
but i like the idea...
for all the superiority
of sensible ideas: that are never
a ******* light-bulb...
when england came across india:
it didn't conquer it...
it merely... reinvented itself...
and brought back a taste for curry
for the plebs...
sowwy... towing what's most
honestly twoo...
then again... without a(n) ego-crown...
h'american tabloid press
"republicanism"...
i don't know which is worse...
i still best flip
a coin that has lizzy's itchy
nose on the base of:
counter corruptions...
such that the popes have met
their: post-scriptum...
i promised myself this...
i'll commit myself...
to ol' susie lo'...
if... and only if and only when...
ol' lizzie has done the
sinker!
then! when i'll...
pay for ***** and giggles
with a tenner that 'as 'er
son's visage... detailing...
how best to arrive at ******
and i will sing! god save! our! king!
i must say: muttered best:
quiff of blonde... herr schtrap!
and kooning 'arlie!
yes... best come across the knee...
and tooth biting sand...
sort of... grit!
Oct 11, 2020
Oct 11, 2020 at 7:01 PM UTC
she's bought a lovely little number
from an established high street store
no thoughts for Bangladesh sweat shops
were children work hard to be poor
she knows she's going to look gorgeous
it's got a slit right down the back
shows the tattoos on her shoulders
and her **** are going to look stacked
she bought some new hair extensions
that clip in and really look real
with some false nails from the pound shop
no one's going to know the real deal
just value beans in the cupboard
and her kids feral in the street
with her spice addict brother on board
McDonalds on Friday's a treat
with a little blue pill from Bill
a proper night for a tenner
although last week it made her ill
this week it's going to be better
she's got a plan to get sorted
pull the dealer from the estate
once a few lines have been snorted
she'll do him at a discount rate
should make enough for her eldest
to buy that snide iPhone she needs
so that she can send her a text
when she needs to score her some ****
probably on Sunday morning
when she needs to just ******* chill
cause the comedown's really hurting
from Friday night's little blue pill
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 5:48 AM UTC
*i'm back to drinking that milky absinthe of Turkey, another night and i'll **** a ******* keyhole with my eye.*
after nearing a 36 hour stretch of being fully awake,
is the serotonin in my brain became caffeine,
i figure, if i managed this diet alcohol free
and push the limits to, say, 52 hours, through
my brain's lack recuperation, i could suffer one last
major lie in on the electric bed and be happily gone,
even physical labour doesn't allow be being tired,
stuffing my stomach to ensure the blood flow went
to the gut... that giant star moving in the night
yesterday above my house didn't help either -
maybe that's why i left studying science, after all
the major discoveries, scientists became a bit
like priests, so entrenched in their beliefs,
artists can theorise, sure, but they rarely make things
dogmatic, take for example Frank O'Hara's manifesto
concerning Personism, the dogmatic in art doesn't
come from artists, hardly a single impressionist
could allow themselves a sticker with:
hello, my name is MONET... champagne and canapés,
artists don't bother defining themselves by
movements... it's the rich girls & boys who do that,
incapable to stomach the truth, the bourgeoisie reality
(proto-Marxism, borrowing money, eh?),
they can't become artists they become critics,
they're the one ones distributing the 'hello, my name is'
stickers for everyone to stick onto themselves,
sure they provide the money - the really rich?
ha ha... the fifth earl of Shropshire hangs the first
earl of Shropshire on his wall... like in Buckingham
palace Queen Elizabeth said of Francis Backon's
artwork: oh that horrid man painting those horrendous
monstrosities of metaphysical plastic surgeries?
the really rich deal with hereditary art, things passed
down, priceless artefacts, which would hardly fetch
£100 million at an auction house like Sotheby's,
believe me... they might get a tenner at best.
May 27, 2016
May 27, 2016 at 4:09 PM UTC
- Can't work out whose this is.
- I don't know either.
But if it's yours..
Dinner's on you.
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 10:28 AM UTC
It's been a while,
so off-the-cuff
with my sweet remarks
for the coffee rings
on the mantelpiece-
how it symbolises
entropy;
the debris of living entities,
the **** at the bottom of everything.
In reality I'm too lazy to clean,
too obsessed
with my lack of legacy
to notice the dust
that collects from old memories;
skin particles from parties long-gone,
all those fast friends
in the mirror,
sharing a tenner
across the kitchen floor.
The Drug took hold of me
from where love had left off,
throttling me
with its day-to-day panic
through my most tired routines,
the pillow-talk white-noise,
the anti-substance regime.
And now I'm tired of you,
you who I get high for,
you who brings me
to steady lows,
a subtle submission
only I can witness,
and only I can bleed out.
The Drug took hold of me
because you didn't;
because everyone let go
once I found a job,
once the money came in,
once my clothes weren't torn anymore.
They thought I was reborn.
A sober sunrise,
a cigarette at dawn,
slipping into the shower,
slipping into that
professional smile;
the bright whites
of the working day-
I have learned
to write and to cry
in the tears
of a crocodile.
A man becomes a calamity
without a woman,
or at least a love
that loves in return.
I have grown soft
in my bleak recovery,
waiting in the trash
of my poetic failures,
no longer looking
for those angry words,
no longer hoping to see
the city come to burn.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 6:02 PM UTC
There’s a man off his chops selling tough for a tenner
But the mercury drops in his ugly temper
And gets lost under Victorian modesty
When faced with their war on fallopian sovereignty
Girl wears her mother’s mittens for earmuffs
Until they’re far enough upwind
“See they’re paraphrasing Jesus dear-but
I’m not so sure that’s what He meant”!
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 5:29 PM UTC
Don’t need my ‘full English’ served
On a giant rectangular slab
Don’t need a dressed salad garnish
With my bacon, sausage and egg
Don’t need vine-on cherry tomatoes
Give me canned ones in juice instead
And though I’ve scoured this ridiculous slab
Can I **** find a slice of fried bread?!
And where is my builder’s tea?
English breakfast or Earl Grey’s the choice
But cutlery won’t stand up in either
I want Tetley’s, nowt else will suffice
Oh, what has happened
To the greasy spoon?
This ‘N8 Brunch’
Is loony tunes
10 of my squid
For two brittle half rashers
That crumble to dust
When faced with my gnashers
One measly egg
Yet a goblet of beans
Presented as if made
Of priceless things
Resplendent on said slab
In a vessel all of their own
Yet still I detest these things
And deign to leave them alone
And every cuppa you have
Costs an additional fee
No bottomless beverages here
No meal deal where your tipple is free
This wasn’t always the case
But gentrification is setting in
Prices soar, pretension is rife
Poshification of everything
I love London toon
Particularly Crouch End
But I’m northern at heart
And it drives me round the bend
When I’m being ripped off
Taken for a ride
Fleeced and shafted
Hung out and dried
If I pop down the road
To N22
A tenner will buy
Double the amount of food
Might not look as pretty
Might not be as ‘posh’
But at least it’s value for money
Not like detonating your dosh
Middey’s by name
****** by nature
The tiniest of fry ups
Leaves me cold by temperature
A sprinkling of rocket
Is an utter abomination
On a British institution
I can’t afford at this rate of inflation
So b***ocks to the balsamic
You sprinkled on those leaves
That didn’t belong there in the first place
Desist in future, please!
Dispense with the vegetation
The slab that should be a plate
And reinstate the greasy spoon
In my beautiful N8.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 2:45 PM UTC