Will Big Halo go crazy, freak out?
Like a schizo on wheels rolling down the Alps?
Will Tiny Youth’s brave be under the pavement?
We huddle for position as eyes form a circle,
On the grounds of the ‘Imperial’ two feared cocks meet.
Shells will settle this war. Smoke!
The Tiny Youth draws:
“Your half mast pants waiting for a flood?
And your shoes are holy like the Bible.
Are those four stripe trainers, rip one off.
Then they might pass for Adidas.
Your neck collar is dirty like a porn star.
Is that a sheep busting through your old padded coat?
So take your smelly butt home and stitch it up…”
“Me await a flood? Yeah, your’e right.
Though the nylon gathering at your feet
Shows it long passed. Your tight nylon pants
Stuck up your cheeks – Barry Sheene
skids in your brief.
Your brief is skiddy like an ice rink.
So skate your brief home and
scrub with Daz in the sink…”
“Your head is tough like a coconut.
And that hair is rougher than a ghetto,
You knock out all teeth on afro-combs, and
Your skin bumpier than gravel stones.
Your face is dark like Darth Vader.
And did Moses part that gap in your teeth?
I smell a cesspit pooling from your mouth
So take your scent to the sewer
Where your bad breath belongs…”
“On your head sits a drenched black poodle.
And your skin is tougher than Bruce Lee.
Your face is rounder than a full waxed moon and
Your skin is dry like sand. Your teeth resemble
Moldy cheese and your breath is even badder
Than Hitler. So take your moon face camouflaged
As an eclipse and hide on the dark side equator…”
“Your mother is dirty, paid every Tuesday,
The post man drops the wages in her sack.
And your father is a dosser, lazier than dole,
Drinks beer, forces farts, he’s stuck
to the remote control. And that shack
you live in is dusty. Dustier than a
speedway track. So take your
Double-barrel nostril nose and
go do some hoovering up…”
“There are cracks in my shack, on the ceilings,
on the wall. I will fill them with polyfilla,
when I see your mother – scraping that makeup
off her wrinkly crinkly face. And your bald headed
father reminds me of a Buzzard. Scrounging for carcass
on the African plains. Your’ soft and boring
like porridge. So in your lunch box pack your
cheesy snack lyrics and go hold down your
snake of drool – fool!”
The circle stays silent. We dare not laugh.
At exploding shells on full hardened cocks.
Mr Brown, adjudicator, judges – and declares.
Slowly raising the arm of the winner who bops
And breaks the circle, fifty pats on his back.
The shelled cock leaves with Jack.