"Stick your Maltesers up your arse," shouted the old lady, wheelchair bound, to her son/brother/youthful husband.
"Did you like that bucket of chips?" he replies.
"Fuck off, no! No! What is he saying again? Fuck off."
She falls to sobbing and cursing, quietly.
"You owe me money!"
"No I don't."
"Yes you do! You owe me three pounds!"
"I'll give you two and you give me five and that will cover the taxi."
"No! Fuck off with your taxi! Stick it up your arse!"
"Well, you owed me before we took that trip to Blackpool. It cost me a packet."
"Stick your packet. You stole it from me!"
"Well, we're quits then."
"Yes! We're quits then, so stop fucking griping."
Doggerel One - Fair Weather Family
Sedulous and crapulous, and full of shit,
Mouthing forgiving platitudes: fine words -
I bid farewell with a careless, obscene kiss.
But when the time comes you just can't say it -
Sticks in your throat; your sentiments mere turds:
I shall remember you each time I piss.
Well, fuck you, I no longer care one whit,
Among my friends I count the clouds and birds,
And all the elements of life and bliss.
Is being trapped in an intolerable situation from which all escape is barred.
Quiet Carriage, Number Two.
A bunch of football cunts, out on the tear, Tamworth to Brum. Soft as shit. If a few glares and a sneer and a laugh in their face can send them out to another carriage, then soft as rain-softened, worm-ate stools on boggy, marish ground.
Doggerel Two - Ugliness
Oh the hatred in a face,
The loathing in your eyes,
What became of all your grace
That so contorted lies?
Twisted, sour, and bitter bile
Now cramps your once fair shape;
And the malice in your smile -
So glad I made escape.
Is being aware that one has accidentally stolen an angel's eyesight, and the rest of your fellows can't see through your purloined eyes.
Quiet Carriage, Number Three.
During the chaos, bloated gut-buckets (male) screaming falsetto grunting aggressive petulancies at the children, and his similarly corpulent wife, turns to the mother and asks in caustic bray (I am ashamed to say they were from the town I was born in): "Have they all come yet?"
"No," replies Gran, brightly surveying the wincing carriage subjected to electronic trumpets, drums and racing cars, "No, dear, they've not come yet, but they soon all will."
Bring on the plastic electric orgasm "quiet-coach" convulsion and let the universe end.
Love, as Afterword.
There's something perfect going on in my life at the moment. I don't need to say more than that. Let mountains of shit bury me, I'll still be smiling and digging my way out.