Ant Smith



Someone in this room

Is wearing sperm stained underpants

It’s a factual statistical actual fact

A crusty patch of crispy spunk splash

You don’t ride the central line

Without occasionally squirting one out

I’ve seen them at it

Bumping & grinding & moaning & writhing

Squeal of the wheels masks broken gasps

What’s the fuss all about ?

Oh, public decency

Standing in the garden

With my dick hanging out – taking a splash

Sink filled with dishes,

Toilet’s clogged up, by the missus

But what’s that in the long grass?

Fucking hedgehog hogging my patch

Splish fucking splash, spikey twat

What’s the fuss all about ?

Oh, The neighbours’ve got kids - the daft bastards

Having a night out, on the lash

Spending too much, on my stash

How’d you like your eggs - scrambled or fertilized?

Is it really rude to point like that

Is my dick hanging out?

Did I think that, or did I verbalize

Is she vomiting in her handbag?

Better that than on my feet - again

Lying down, need to sleep -street. sleep.

What’s the fuss all about ?

Oh! Tripping hazard

All kinds of in-discrete, ways to behave

All kinds of fucked up, fucking freaks

Somewhere overe there

And whereas here I am, albeit

Not the kind of man

You’d ever like your sisters ever to meet

Or come to that, your gran

With her magnificent fulsome breast

That can still fill the tightest dress


What’s the fuss all about ?

Oh! Cardiac threat.