Rough Options

Faced with a dilemma, late on Friday night,
You want to get your hole and you couldn't give a shite.
The hot chicks with the great big boobs are all now long departed
And the one you hedged your bets on has left you broken-hearted.
So the barman's called last orders and your picking up the crumbs
Or else you're going home alone getting hassled by the bums.

There's a fatty, a minger or that chick who's off her face
Pulling kisses at the wall and falling round the place.
But you know that in five minutes she'll be throwing up her tea
And you'll be holding back her hair as you're standing in her wee.

The fatty'll want to stop, you know, so she can get some chips
And in the morning you'll be scarred for life by the memory of her hips.
The chances are as well, of course, that as you sneak her out,
Your mate will laugh and point and stare at her cellulite and gout.
So forget about it, leave it out, it's not worth the fucking scorn,
You can always turn the lights down low, with a little bit of porn!

What about the bogger with the Leitrim jersey on?
She'll believe your bullshit once all her mates are gone.
But do you really want to know, the price of cattle at the mart
Can you listen to her mumble as she rips your dick apart
With her giant big farmer hands, all calloused from her work.
Driving Massey Fergusons to Mass aint my idea of a quirk.

Lets face it what you're looking for just isn't going to happen,
And finding hot chicks on the prowl's never gonna be a tap in
But to be fair it's not that bad, a hot dog will do just fine,
As you walk down to the night link to join the great big line.

And as you do you spot a girl, staring back at you
Its Ross McMahon from Junior School, that you never really knew.
So you say hello and give a smile and offer her a bite,
As she asks you for your number so you can meet another night.

Her lovely eyes tell you that she means just what she said,
That she fancied you when you were kids and you go completely red.

So the next time that you're hanging round outside the ladies jacks,
Waiting for your dream girl while avoiding all the knacks.
You never know whats waiting there, hiding in plane sight
Much better than an ugly bitch, who'd give Chucky's bride a fright.

Heroes in a Half Shell

Four wise old me, lived five hundred years ago.
Changed the way we think and reversed the status quo,
Perspective perfected, their minds were infected
With moving us on, as if heavenly directed.

Da Vinci was the greatest and seemed to do it all,
He thought outside the box, hanging masterpieces on the wall.
Even flight was on his mind as others scratched their heads
And nothing held him back except the worried Holy Feds.

Next came Donatello making statues with his hands,
Using such fine detail he would fuss about the sands
Marble, limestone, granite quartz,
He'd use them all and even warts
Were put upon his famous faces
And all sent around to different places.

Now Michelangelo lay on his back
and crippled lying on his paint soaked mac.
The Cysteine Chapel thanks him still
Decorated by his mighty quill.
The cardinals now to this day,
Meet up and chat while the smoke is grey.
The tourists stand in awe and stare
At god and Adam in holy prayer.
Some person thought it a travesty
And covered up gods modesty
With a little nighty coloured pink
Its weird to think that at the very brink
Of Mans creation from the ground
It was gods attire that was so fround.

And then another; Raphael,
Created David under a spell.
He's made of bronze and three feet tall
But perfect even if it is quite small.

'Cause people realised even back then
That amazingness was in these men.
And to this day we look in awe
To tell our neighbours that we saw
In Paris, Rome and Florence too
While they just visited the zoo.

But in that time we've really tried
To destroy their honour, they would have cried.
For now upon our telly sets
They completely changed our view of pets.
Every Christmas now the kids all scream
"We want that turtle on the TV screen".

There's four of them live with a giant rat
Eating pizzas till they all get fat
And they fight their villain with their nightly calls
"Kowabunga dude" at Krangs giant balls.
Cause their evil foe looks like a testicle
All wrinkled in his man shaped vesicle.

So there you go that's how it ends,
Its a sorry state I'm afraid my friends.
These men of greatness will live on in name
As Warner hangs their heads in shame.
The sewer turtles from a studio
Are the only names the children know
And the four great men from the Renaissance
I'm sure would stare in quiet nonchalance
And shed a tear that their works of arts
Are remembered best in cartoon parts.

Green Envy

Green Envy

When I’m a grownup with knowledge and cash,

A big, fancy wrist watch and Tom Selleck tash.

I’ll never think about what it’s like to be small.

I’ll just act the prick and a complete know it all.

With my shiny red hatch back blaring Coldplay all cool,

God I can’t wait to be that fucking tool.

‘Cause it seems to be normal in the grownups I see,

To be an absolute arsehole to kids like you and me.

Disregarding our education as if it’s a joke

And being condescending even though they’re all broke.

But it’s your fucking problem, you made this mess,

We’re all out of here; it’s not worth the stress.

So when you’re sixty five and your pension is due

There’ll be no fucking money and the joke is on you.

’Cause we’ll all be in London living the dream

I guess we’re not that fucking stupid…….. or so it would seem.

Ugly Duckling???

There once was an ugly duckling, with feathers all scruffy and brown,
And all the other ducks said, "quack, my God, quack, quack, oh my God, You're too mingin' for L.A. town".

The poor little ugly duckling was laughed at and teased and he cried.
He withdrew from the word and stayed in his room and away from the world he would hide.
His gnarly rough feathers were covered in tears as he reached for the biscuit tin,
He sat there and balled as he looked in the mirror; He now had a double chin.

The years they passed by as he sat in his room, immersed in the dreams in his head.
The Pixies, Bob Dylan, Wilde and Bill Hicks, his best friends while he lay on his bed.

When Uni came round he packed up his bags. He prepared for life in a battle,
He waddled on campus despite points and sneers in a college just north of Seattle.
The classes he chose were both varied and fun and the things that he liked the most,
Like politics, arts and the history of man, way up on that Pacific coast.

He learned to play drums, even formed his own band but just of the online kind,
Too afraid they wouldn't accept his strange face, anonymity was best he did find.
But from all of this work that he did on the net, he hatched a plan one fine day,
To start a podcast with music and chat and just see where his venture might stray.

He discussed John Lennon, the Pope and Iran, his honesty won him some fans,
With humour and research and knowledge and style a change from the usual fake tans.
A few months went passed and just by word of mouth, the listeners numbers grew big.
Refreshing to hear him not speak of himself like the usual self righteous pod-pig.

A radio station not far from his flat, got wind of this show on the web
And over the phone he was offered a job, he'd be heard from L.A. to the Leb.
His wages as well, quack quack oh my God, he couldn't believe his blind luck.
By just being himself he could do just fine for such a strange and fat ugly duck.

Now in his 50's with a wonderful wife, he opens the news every day
And reads about all the ugly real life that goes on all the time in L.A.
With divorces and face lifts and prescription pills and battling the day that you die
He smiles at his wife with his four meals a day.........polished off with a nice pecan pie.

Confused Bee Enthusiast and the Dread of Colony Collapse Disorder

While sitting watching telly, late last Thursday night

I heard some tragic news, which gave me an awful fright.

The disappearance of the B, vanishing across the land.

"Who really cares though?" I thought and I dismissed it out of hand.

But then they made another point that made me jolt awake,

About the colonies we’d lose and just what was at stake.

Cause then  it got me thinking, exactly what we’d lose

If all the colonies we had would soon become old news.

India and Bangladesh, Ireland and Oz

And little Fiji out at sea, its as if it never was.

And all because the B was lost, gone from our alphabet,

It seemed so strange, I was confused and I then began to fret.

For Bobby Charlton, Benny Hill and Alexander Graham Bell,

Would be erased from history as if vanished by a spell.

The Bacon Butties, Beer and Beans would never touch our lips

Fantastic for cholesterol  and wonders for our hips.

But culturally our foods not great at the very best of times,

With Boveril and Battered Bars, all culinary crimes.

And Beacons of our great  empire, the BBC and old Big Ben,

Would not stand up for Brittishness , We’d be off to sea again.

Even us, our country, our very name Britain,

Would be gone forever, lost it seems, as if it were never written

And Blur, Kate Bush and David Bowie would never touch our ears.

Imagine if the Beatles had not been with us all those years?

So yes I guess its not a shock, the British empire's in collapse.

We’ll have to write to all the schools and change all of the maps.

We underestimate you little B, and all the things you do

I hope its not too late dear friend and that we may rescue you.

Lucky is the Dog.......................

Look

If you hit a dog with a dirty big old hammer,

I’d beat you till your teeth fell out and leave you with a stammer.

Your bowels would never work again, your piss now always leaking.

Nobody would talk to you cause your clothes are always reaking.

Because you smashed his head in and left him there to die,

You really deserve the same yourself and by fuck I’d make you cry.

Apart from  branding your face all red, blistered by a poker.

I’d tie you on a motorway, neck held tightly by a choker.

And all the cars that drove that way, would throw stones and hiss and spit

When they read the sign above your head, telling them you’re such a shit.

And you’d stand there in your pissy pants, stuttering like a fool,

I bet you’d then regret being so fucking cruel.

So why the fuck d’you do it? What the hell was in your head,

When you opened up that nice old dog, and left him there for dead?

I’d really love to know the answer to the question that I pose

But I know you’re just a scumbag and would complain about your woes.

How the government won’t buy your food or new nappies for your spawn.

Get a job and sterilise yourself, your excuses make me yawn.

On second thoughts I think I’d just like to see you on that road,

Suffering the pain you deserve you prick and paying the debt you owed.

If Your Dad Ever Decides To Do Your Family Tree - Shoot Him

I've a funny feeling it was eighty eight,
The sun never shone, the rain, never late.
We rented a house in the county of Clare,
For fun on the beach and lots of fresh air.

Two small city kids were some novelty
But for us it was nothing but child cruelty.
Cause there's one bloody thing I'll never forget
And thinking of it gives me a cold sweat.

Its staring out the car window not giving a fuck,
I'd have eaten the arse off a low flying duck.
We saw ruins and forts and chevaux de frises
And loads of old churches just lying in pieces.

But they're not the things that still give me the willies
As we sat dumb in the car like two mute silly billies.
We should have screamed loud and just smashed up our seat
Till our despot chauffeur would have admitted defeat

But me and my sister were such good mannered kids
And I've no doubt were bribed by the promise of quids,
Or at least a Club Orange from in the next shop,
Then had our face stuffed with a nice lollipop.

But it cant be right that your childhood's been stole
And the back seats been moulded by an eight year olds hole.
North, south, east and west we bumped over the roads,
I don't know the right distance but I'm sure it was loads.

To old men with no teeth and no toilet too,
We thought we'd been taken to some strange sort of zoo
And crusty old farmers living over the hills.
Jesus just thinking of it is giving me chills.

For days upon days and week after week,
It seems total weirdos was all that my father would seek
And then there's the graveyards with grass full of tics,
While my friends all at home went off to the flicks.
Tombs, headstones and plots of distant dead people,
The death knell of my childhood rang out from the steeple.

Family fucking trees, I could not care less,
When it causes young children so much god damn stress.
I really don't care if in eighteen 0 two,
Paddy Mc Flaherty died trying to poo.
I'm sure it was normal with diseases back then
So why look so backwards at these long dead men?

We're all here today and that's really what matters
And I guess my childhood's not quite in tatters.
So spending my summer with my mum and my dad,
I guess I am lucky and I should feel very glad.

'Cause when I'm old and grey with kids of my own,
I can show them this Tree and watch them as they moan
And I'm sure they wont care about my "old person" tales
Of graveyards and farmers and trips through the dales.

While they play on their X-Box and tweet with their mates
And at eight years of age probably going on dates.
We saw the last of old Ireland now long dead and past,
So I guess it was a pleasure cause those days went very fast.