Aye right 'nuff they'll be pishing themselves laughing on the Ormeau Road reading that.
Can I be an official reseller?? ;-)
BTW . . . have you seen THISPositively ghastly!
What a hoot! They'll sell well within the Labour Party too I imagine (possibly seen as a badge of honour?)
Want one-want one-want one!See you at the unofficial Convention on Liberty on Sat, chapses. (Will be wearing my LPUK pin on the collar of my greatcoat for easy identification.)
FIXIN’ TO DIE BLUESPoor Ms Goody, everyone’s creation but her own."Feeling funny in my mind, Lord,I believe I’m fixin’ to die, fixin’ to die, fixin’ to dieFeeling funny in my mind, LordI believe I’m fixin’ to die, fixin’ to die, fixin’ to dieWell, I don’t mind dyingI just hate to leave my children crying."Poor Mr Peter Bazalgette, the great-grandson of the man who made the sewers made the Big Brother House and in the Big Brother House he made poor Cameron, the gay Orkney fishmonger, now in Highland pantomimes, and he made poor Ms Goody, now nearly no more.Poor Mr Max Clifford, publicist to Mr Frank Sinatra and maybe other gangsters, made poor Ms Goody, now nearly no morePoor Ms Shelpa Wotsit, a gushing airhead by any other name, her crimson talons dipped in communal bowls of slop, creating ethnic cuisine for the housemates, made poor Ms Goody, now nearly no more."Well there’s black smoke a-rising Lord,A-rising up above my head, up above my headWell there’s black smoke a-rising Lord,A-rising up above my head, up above my headTell Jesus, make up my dyin’ bed."Poor Mr Devil’s Kitchen, firebrand radical blogger, ho hum, as if politics provided insufficient material for his limping vision, made poor Ms Goody, now nearly no more.Poor Mr Old Holborn, contrarian, made poor Ms Goody, now nearly no more.Poor Mr Murdoch, poor Mr Richard Littlecock, poor Mr Kelvin McCunt; poor Mr&Mr Barclay, OpinionsRus, they all made poor Ms Goody, now nearly no more.Poor Mr Gordon Snot; poor Mr Jack Torture; poor Frau Schmidt, stuttering, lisping and lying, they all made poor Ms Goody, now nearly no more."Look over yonder, to that burying groundLook over yonder, to that burying groundSure seems lonesome,Lord, when that Sun goes down."Sweet fucking Jesus, what sort of a place is this, what sort of country, what sort of people are we that, po-faced, we find reasons to kick the dying.Je touche le chapeau a M. Bukka White et a toute les Mississippiens mort et sans le visibilite, mais non a le commentariat stupide et insensible.
this will end with him needing therapy...physician heal thy sel....oh hang on he aint qualified.
Very good, but why the pretty picture of him from some years back. Should be how he looks now, i.e. just crawled out of the gutter
Post a Comment