my tiger tin

dear my dear tiger tin

in which i keep stuff 'n' things

you were £1 in poundland

you were bought on a whim

since then through thick & thin

from front rooms to festivals

i cant be without you

essential as testicles

yes without you one's lost

like grime without wiley

or countdown

sans perving at rachel riley

oh my dear tiger tin

in which i keep shit 'n' things

i fucking love you

oddly my heart sings




death by nice

it's all quintessentially 

picturesque & quaint

warm brush strokes

the lord doth paint

thatched cottages for villages

lush meadows all around

a light breeze & birdsong

are oft the only sound

every reverend cycles

on the green - wicket keeping

cake sales & ginger ale

a chocolate labrador sleeping

inevitably green hills

generically idyllic

begging for mass murder

or failing that

a picnic


little sprinkles of evil

little sprinkles

 of evil

should be practiced


like throwing stones

into unsuspecting rivers

swapping 'round traffic cones

chuckling all the way

or getting off the bus

a stop later than you paid for

having pushingitly

rang the bell

or informing a drayman

that your real name's graham

& then gradually you'll inch


closer to hell



24 owls

yes some are blatantly

secretly flemish

whilst others hobble-plod

like that 3-legged dog

which you pass some mornings

or occasional evenings

some supplicate cress

some cling to the ceiling

the darker ones

they're hell folk

they're born with 13 elbows

further some last a second

some stay for the week

then some have swollen glands

& others wandering hands

- yes every day's unique