In Hell, We plunged arms Elbow deep into the firelake And pulled out black scarecrow limbs That dripped like toffee apples And fizzled like crack spoons. On burnt twig digits
His latest poem is a toad king It knows it is fatly sexual Stroking its long thin piccolo cock While admirers queue like bottles on a belt And yes you've Fidgeted in line
On the production floor of the Syphilis Barracks, Raoul One stood shivering in blue cotton pyjamas and a flannel dressing gown, along with ten of his fellow Councillors.