Inside Pandora's Box :

The Collection of
'FATMANS' Literary Lyricisms

WARNING : Contains POETIC language
Page Two

Ballad of El Tel of KD

There was a young man called El Tel, 
Who worked in a place that was hell, 
With KD and the mongs things couldnít be right,
And timer was set when he went for shite.

His stories of Jordan,
Would lessen the boredom, 
And the models he had,
Were all very glad.
His fighting old Albert a battle of wits, 
Which in turn, give Keith the manager the shits. 
His life was a Bond movie, his kung foo so groovy 
And he loved mashing cardboard to bits.
The army were barmy not to sign him for service,
His days at the cadets left many regrets, 
The S.A.S wanted him to join their team,
But at the end of the day KD was supreme. 

The poor lad had a screw loose,
But knew a good tale, 
And made many wail, 
In days of old when KD was gold.
A dogs life

   In this home no dog does roam,
   But down the lane there barks a pain, 
   Itís very freaky liked by all, 
   Its small and nasty, this is Kiki. 

   Sometimes you wouldnít know itís, 
   There then you hear itís owners swear,
   And call it names like little rat or twat,
   But some day soon its gonna bite a brat.

   Then the coppers will be round,
   And shoot the bastard to the ground, 
   All will howl and be quite sad, 
   Except for me - cos Iíll be glad. 

   I hate it so and wish each night and,
   Day that god will take it straight away.  
   The little rat must be charmed because,
   Surely now it would be dead,
   Iíve put 10,000 curses on its head. 
   Farewell brave Kiki written on a cross,
   But who gives a fucking toss! 
A. Monge.


Then youíre in a world pain,
Chewing bacca next to hard man Blain.
On a chopper with the Dutch,
Doesnít Arnie look so butch.

Up in the hills on a summer night,
Half canned we tried to re-enacted their fight. 
I was Dutch and Nick was blain,
Tom did not want to play the game. 

Rich must have been Billyboy,
But disappeared into the night,
Or did he go for a crafty shite.
Marcus Curtius was in complete utter despair, 
With his chaffing underwear.

We drank till darkness fell,
It was a bloody hell. 
I couldnít see, the light was bad, 
But nobody died it wasnít sad. 

As I looked back in fading light,
I nearly had a horrible fright,
I swear I saw the Predator swing, 
And his laser zooming thing.
It could have been ten pints of shit welsh beer, 
Or maybe something man hunting deer.

Back at base we lit a fire,
To keep away the howling sheep, 
I didnít get a single wink of sleep.
Halfway through this dreadful night, 
I legged it for a f*ckin shite.
The bog was full just like the moon, 
I had to dock the shit just like a rocket,
And use a single tissue from my pocket. 

The Predator stayed at bay, 
Waiting for another day.
So when the heat of summer comes again, 
We're off to Wales to play are game.
Night of the Demon


The Demon in whitehouse.

He lives in the whitehouse on Sparky Lane,
He thinks heís the president,-- quite insane.
A fucking old grumpy git, 
That flies into a raging fit, 
If someone parks on his bit, 
Then they will get loads of shit. 
Canít you see the sign -KEEP OFF-you swine,
And park elsewhere cos I donít care. 

The lanes my patch and I am daddy,
So donít park here or Iíll have a paddy. 
But one time when rushing back ,
I park my car just by his shack. 
He cast a curse so fast, that would make, 
That night my very last.     

As I was listening to my tunes he pushed, 
A letter of ancient runes, 
Through the door it fell upon floor, 
And burnt away forever more.

The following night the Demon came,
With gnashing teeth it called my name.
I ran through Bluebell woods late that night,
A fiery Demon giving flight.
I begged him to undone the Demon curse,
But this only made it fucking worse. 
In seven days you will die, 
And join the Demon in the sky.

Poor Albert-map his face went red,
And he did crap,on Saturday next I will die, 
Can no one help me with this problem, 
Maybe I should ring the Goblin. 
So beware the Curse of Sparky Lane, 
And the Demon bringing pain. 
or is it just - a Fuckin tale,
Written by a blubber whale. 

Was this tale of horror,
ďNight of DemonĒ you did borrow,
A similar story but with different names,
Was written by a Mr James.

The Beginning

You must go to Husco The people who work there come from two tribes, The ones who are old and ones for free rides. They bitch and they backstab, they grass to the boss, solidarity get fucked, it's gone for a toss. "They hate" the manager who smells like queer, But their straight down the pub, when he buys the beer. The old hate the young, and the young hate the old, And the scouse hate the Manks,and the blacks, - No thanks. A good factory farm, our chickens come to no harm, Accept at the end when thereís no work in their pens. Down comes the axe to chop off their head, but the bastards, Become dole lites their not really dead..... This is factory life as seen in the filmís but missing the frills, And the bits in between - there not allowed on the silver screen. The monotonous crap produced from our schools, This why England is so full of fools. Spewed from a chav's snatch they come in a batch, All thick as a bulls cock they follow the flock, They work very cheap and act like daft sheep. The boss isn't there he doesn't really care, The computer is king it's all a new thing. It's just like the scene from Schindlers list, With all of the naziís are totally pissed, If you don't make the hingers you end up as cinders. In factory land they sell their freedom by the pound. The redneck Yanks have bled it dry, Theyíve had their days of fortune, with British steel, But now itís time to do the Asian deal. Goodbye stupid Runcorn youíre all on the dole, But donít be so glum youíve had a good roll.

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