Why is your passion
Like it’s gone out of fashion?
You’ve perfected the trick of making me sick
Like I’m watching the Kardashians
Who think we’re enlightened when they whiten their teeth
Or get new tints
The vacuous bints
And that twatish bloke with the jumper round his neck.
I’m no fighter
But I’d love to pull it tighter
Life would be better to see you swing
From the ceiling
Attached to an Arran sweater.
But I’m better than this
And I don’t know if you got the gist
It’s just I’d love your expensive watch
Like a ship
To the floor
From your limp, dead wrist.
I’m in my prime
But I could turn to crime
And yeah it might seem that I’m
But just a cheeky little car crash
Would do the job.
I know this bloke, Bob
The Everest of man-mountains
Who could sort it in such a manner
But with less memorial fountains.
And I know wishing death on someone is a little far
But I’d supply the car
If that’s what it takes
It just wouldn’t have brakes.
But I digress
I went off road
Like I hope their fucking car does
I’m just poking fun, I’m provoking
I’m karaoke-ing with a lie that I can’t deny:
I don’t really want the Kardashians to die.
I want them tortured
To within an inch of their celebrity life
Like I’d get one red ant
And his ant wife
To eat them alive
Starting at opposite ends
Until they arrive
And all that survives
Is their eyes
So they can watch their demise
In HD, like me
And their shitty TV show
Men would say turn over
But I don’t control the TV in our house
I haven’t got the nous
I’m timid as a mouse
I haven’t even got a spouse
Just my girls
Steph and Emma
It’s not much of a dilemma
And I don’t moan when you don’t replace the loo roll
Or leave the key in the front door
But that Kardashian programme’s poor
And QI’s on the other side
And even silence is better for the mind
And I’m sorry for speaking while you’re watching
But please, please, please
Whatever you do