Ant Smith
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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.