A rendition in sepia. Not my favourite medium it has to be said. But Erik had left his Polaroid camera behind in his Tipton bedsit. How sad is that?
Me and the lads are not in a happy frame of mind. Not only have we run out of mead but we had to drag our long boat forty miles up the M4.Note to self: Must only pillage seaside towns in the future.
We arrived about noon and went on the search for mead. The local off licence only sold sweet sherry and pernod. Shit, a word to the wise. Never drink pernod on an empty stomach. Harold ‘The Herald’ wanted a new laptop so we stopped off at Curries. I like to amuse myself by standing by high price items. It is the quickest way to gain the attention of the sales staff as they are mainly paid by commission.
Once they start to zero in I fuck off around the aisles and lead them a merry chase. Once I was cornered by Sascha in the white ware department. As he was swarthy complected (this not a real word, by the way) and had a silly accent I decided to cleave him asunder and in twain with my double headed Danish war axe ‘Twat Cruncher.’ O we did laugh.
Harold finally decided on a Mac. Frankly I thought it a bit overpriced myself. But as we were not a buying but a pillaging it twas only a minor quibble. Sharon at the checkout helped us carry the multitude of goods to our longboat. Malcolm the manager did protest too much as we didn't pay for sundry goods, so we killed him. Frankly, I’m not looking forward to pushing the boat back to Dudley canal. Perhaps we will just catch the bus home.
Come friendly bombs and fall on Slough!
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow.
Swarm over, Death!
Come, bombs and blow to smithereens
Those air -conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk, tinned beans,
Tinned minds, tinned breath.
Mess up the mess they call a town-
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half a crown
For twenty years.
And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washes his repulsive skin
In women's tears:
And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.
But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.
It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
And talk of sport and makes of cars
In various bogus-Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.
In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.
Come, friendly bombs and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.