Listen, motherfucker, and let me make this clear: I've had your fucking poetry up to here – Your tender recollections and wistful reminisce: Excuse me, Mr. Shakespeare, whilst I go and have a piss.
Somebody start a fight or something
If I wanted Chekhov I'd've worn my polo neck And brought along some high-strung bitch who's anorexi-ec, But I'm wearing just a tee-shirt, I'm getting off my tits, The chick I'm with's a barker, and my life is full of shit.
I'm not a man of violence, but I'll give no guarantee When I'm faced with symbolism and onamatapee: There's a fucking artist! – let me get my stick! You want a fucking beating? C'mon, then: go sick.