You're a right cockendA Poem by £15 + A S**t BJproper shitfuckYou invite me to come and sit at the 'Big Boy
Table', But you probs still have an account on Dragon
Fable, Talking s**t to me, are you mentally disabled? For I shall do to you the same as Cain did to Able, But not out of envy, my emotions, consistently stable, Though I could punch your smug face then smash it
off a pool table, Walk to the jukebox, slowly unplug the power cable, And choke you with it, until you were completely unable, To show off about the naked pictures on your phone, You're the sickest man alive, that I've ever known, And I've been to prison in Stockton, the House of the Holme, I'll slap you in the face and stab your brain with
your nose-bone, You walk past, smelling of knock-off Cologne, And remember you whereabouts aren't exactly
unknown, You're not unique or special, like a scene kid's
clone, I don't know why you're a sex-pest, probably
disowned, By your parents, you were just left all alone, When they see you around they sometimes think how
you've grown, Into a serial sex-offender, child porn your
ringtone, You're about as f*****g useful as the Bezoar Stone, If you can't comprehend that metaphor; you're utterly worthless, Like a naked first year, I'll leave you breathless and wordless, And sweating, but rather than horny you're getting nervous, Burn down your Old Earth's places of worship, the churches, And murder you by stabbing a crucifix through your cervix, You're of no purpose, you should run away and join the circus, I'd purchase a furnace just to burn you on the surface, Watch a bullet hit you, that's magic, like Ehrlich's, Versus, some lass in Na-trass' form, You got your head caved in, I guess that's the norm, Put your hands up her skirt, you never fail to perform, Two of your ex's are hot, the rest are lukewarm, Most go to nurseries or are facially deformed, Best Protect Ya Neck, cos little C's be on the swarm, Be on form, beyond a magic ice storm, Freezing Raine, about to hit you in singular form, Not so arrogant, when I'm knocking at your door, If your mother wasn't in I would've left you on the floor, Cos like Ra', I don't go on tour, I go to war, Put a message in a bottle, it washes up on your shore, Reading 'Dear Kieran Hilling, your mother's a bore, You're girl is a w***e, you're hated yet you think you're adored, Your arsehole is sore and your only protection's the law', I've told you before, step to me, I'll hit you with more, Turn the other cheek and I'll break your f*****g jaw, Deplore your rapport, ignored and abhorred you heretofore, Your thighs are quite sore, because they used to proper chafe, You're a f****t, you'll never walk the streets and be safe, Chubby emo, attention-seeking, flabby disgrace, You're best mate's sister, is there no skirt you wouldn't chase? You'd spend 20 without haste, just to jizz on a face, And keep pie charts and tables about each sexual base, You've been to and with who, how long it took you to screw, Whatever you're f*****g that you smuggled out of the zoo, F*g through and through, half-man like a boy that never grew, Lonely and depressed, like the ever-Wandering Jew, You're a paedophile, who's justice is long-overdue, But you're sexual desires, I doubt authorities can subdue, Future advice, don't bite off more than you can chew, And I wish you luck with whatever pubeless girls you pursue... © 2011 £15 + A S**t BJ
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