Inside Pandora's Box :


The Collection of
'FATMANS' Literary Lyricisms











WARNING : Contains POETIC language
Page One


Chongin Jaguar

        A place not a million miles away,
        But stoners rule this day,
        And all gods decent men do pray, 
        That good jobs come their way.
        The cars they make are probably fake,
        And the boss knows best, 
        In his high vis-vest.

        Chong is king and drugs are norm,
        And every scouser’s got some form. 
        The lads are wrong in the head,
        But keep on smoking skunk you punk,
         - you’ll soon be fucking dead. 
        The working class man as gone for good,
        Been replaced by the neighbour hood. 

        Their bitter twisted little minds,
        Too full of hate for this mankind. 
        They’ve lost the plot and all that,
        Matters is their pot.  
        Selling crack and snorting coke,
        If this work I‘d rather be broke,
        Life is just a fucking toke.
        Lets stay at home and play, 
        The Xbox all-alone.

        The working class man as gone for good, 
        Been replaced by the neighbour hood. 
        The old and middle aged, 
        Praying to get Out of the cage, 
        In Jaguar’s last rage.
        Mocked the dope smoking fool, 
        Just out of infant school. 

        The pride of the British car industry, 
        A famous footballer gets for free. 
        The workers threatened by the Agency,
        In life is there no clemency.
        The working class man as gone for good,
        Been replaced by the neighbour hood. 
 
        The yanks have gone and milked it dry,
        And left it for an Asian guy. 
        He laughs and pulls the plug, 
        Sends it down the drain, 
        Causing scousers loads of pain.
 
        People ask me why I left – was I sacked, 
        Or did I leave something good,
        Or was it just a horrible neighbourhood.
Orinoco & Tomskboy


     Orinoco and Tomsk boy,
     Just outside the city walls,
     Lives tomsk the bad with massive balls,
     And his brother “Orinoco the fat”, 
     In a garden with the cat.
 
     They eat all day and sleep all night,
     And don't give a F*** where they shite. 
     There pigs you see or sometimes not, 
     So clean their cage before they rot.

     They never met a girly pig, 
     So don't know all about the birds & bees, 
     Except the ones in the garden trees.
 
     They only had one sexual fling it wasn’t nice, 
     And took an Oedipus ring. 
     So no more trips to see their dad, 
     He chased them round and made them sad. 
     But bad boy tomsk was fighting mad, 
     And battered up poor old dad.

     Tomsk is only happy when he's biting, 
     He's well- known for his kung foo fighting. 
     But Tomsk is nothing without his bro, 
     The one who is the smelliest down below. 
     Orinoco is his name, 
     Shitting constantly is his game. 

     They’re the boyZ who rule the garden now,
     Causing poor old kitty so much pain,
     She’s driven out of the Haslin lane. 

     She’s mad as a hatter, 
     Watching the boyz get fatter. 
      I think she plans a guinea feast,
     But tomsk is a raging beast.
     He will smash her to the deck, 
     And wring that cats scrawny neck.


Number Three

Faster than a Rocket snaking through the lanes, 
Super sonic despatch boy even it rains,
West end, east end It all looks the same to me,
And don’t forget the tower bridge Crossing constantly.
Dashing round the smoke life is just a joke,
Looking for a street that is just off Fleet.    
Fun and wheelies down the  pub with the lads, 
at the Robin Hood. 

The Chiswick high on a Friday night,
Completely bladdered and ready to fight.
Pronto boys and Warwick dorks talking ,
Bikes and telescopic forks.    
Riding like a mad man changing down and flying,
Never think of accidents or people that are dying.
But luck and time are running out,
And death & fear are always near.

You never see what knocked you out or feel the pain, 
Just the blood and guts running down the outside lane
Unlucky are the ones that live and tell,
The stories of this biking hell.
The dead and dying remain behind forever flying,
Down the road of sparks and leather.
Names like super Bri and Forty-four,
Quick as lighting earned a score.
But the best was faster still, Captain scarlet, 
Or 89 flying west and dead on time.
Number Four

Morag hen lives down the lane, With a man who is a pain. They have a dog or is it rat, I wish it dead I’ll kill the tw***. One day a buzzard will fly down , And lift it from the f****** ground. Then drop it from a greater height, And smash its bones the little shit. My name is jock, I’m Hard as rock, He likes to fight and knock her out, He doesn’t lose a single bout. When he’s drunk a gallon or more, Then its time to punch her To the floor. When she’s down the boot goes in, The neighbours wake - awful din. Nobby falls from his bed and, Nelly scream’s wake the dead. Just in time the bobbys come, And old jock is on the run. But in nick - not long his stay, 'C*ns*r*d' he must pay -, 70 quid and jock is free. Morag please tell them it wasn’t me, It was whisky can’t you see. Up before the judge he went, But the bastard was too bent. Jock paid the fifty quid and, Nothing more was ever said, Until old morag turned up dead.
The author would like to state any person mentioned in this poem are fictitious and bear no resemblance to any person living or deed! Or gonna be deed ye wee shawer of fucking bastards.

  PAGE TWO


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