Wood For Brains, Shit For Trees

Wood For Brains, Shit For Trees

Here bide The Silent; be very afraid if you can:

they’re drifting downstream on flotsam and jetsam

between world wars, empty vessels rattling beads,

Mary Whitehouse brigade spread like toxic weeds,

muster apathy for these dull grey porridge wits

wondering lost, boneheads in black forest pits

iced with simple vanilla thoughts, soft and slick

their shoes, muck caked with gateaux so thick

that elderberry trees shit leaves for their books.

Slow-draw and shoot you with blank smug looks,

given to illiterate ignorant scum-suds confessions,

deliver tombstone chat-show fag packet life lessons

from old repurposed thrice weekly TV soapboxes,

boast fuck-me-don’t effects; piss-poor direction

of treasured white luvvie actors emoting candyfloss

concoctions, reaching out to sooth minds of dross.

Rot. Yes, all lives matter but mine more than yours

they mumble, spitting grit through false teeth;

gobfuls of puree mashed tin corned beef hash

leftovers, rank ham shank, yellow pea fishy pie,

grey bitty eggs left overnight to decay and die,

bald thick kidney lumps where steak should be

chew over this morning’s minced brains for tea.

Distant since conception, making piss not love,

true blue respect fits them like hand in glove,

stamp hard on Beatles, lay Stones with blame,

say Dylan invented their fucking walking frame,

wish Pistols were never born for all sex is porn,

lent crochet hooks to weave that crown of thorns

then watched him dance without a second glance

for all they are saying is give shit a chance.

Listen to them grizzle, don’t ever give it a rest;

likely contestants for The Eurovision Bore Contest

if they hadn’t voted leave us their fucking mess

to sort out much-laters. Just don’t take any breath

between bollocks; lecture us more about waste not

wipe snot be thankful for what little’s given or got

and aren’t they paid too much for kicking a ball

disgraceful it should be earned or not paid at all

their fault they’re on drugs and getting the dole:

These slack tongued slap shoe stick not twisters,

don’t think they won’t beat it into you with slippers,

belts, braces and wooden spoons that give and give

and give until they shatter; well let fly with fists,

boot sense into the little shit should it try to resist

then cut to Henman Hill to see slack jaw waves,

blankets of cheering for those second rate graves.

Come the fading of the light, see them snivel, gripe

I was right to be colour blind, to leave nothing behind

except my selective amnesia, voting slips that grind

your children’s children’s bones and make my bread

to dip in your generation’s gravy until I’m dead.

Here bide The Silent; now snub them out of spite,

they contribute nothing but imperial tons of shite.