If a shotgun-toting farmer makes you try and wed his daughter,
As you had your wicked way with her and people think you oughta,
And respect’s a massive thing with him, he has no qualms with slaughter,
And you’re scared, and feel your lower eyelids filling up with water,
And the farmer sees your fear, which makes him fly into a rage,
And so he smacks you round the earhole with his ancient sixteen-gauge,
And you feel perhaps he’s missing a developmental stage,
As he batters you and bundles you, upset, into a cage,
And it turns out there won’t be a shotgun wedding now, instead,
The only thing to make his daughter happy is your head,
Which will end up quite detached from you, so you’ll be very dead,
And you think perhaps you should have bit the bullet and got wed,
And you’re feeling pessimistic and you’re fearing for your life,
And you’re sure that you’ll be murdered by your surely-inbred wife,
And you kind of get the feeling inter-species love is rife,
And the farmer’s looking livid and he’s sharpening his knife,
And it all goes kind of silly and he puts you in a dress -
Is it murder or a wedding? Seems to both the answer’s yes,
And it seems as though you’re doomed to be a sacrifice unless
You can really blow his mind with rapid thinking and finesse,
Then now’s the time for action, and for courage, and for guts,
For doing, not for thinking, with no ifs, no whats, no buts,
For acting for your life, ignoring grazes, knocks and cuts:
A time to kick the fucking farmer in his inbred fucking nuts.

The books I read aren’t highbrow, they’re mostly silly stuff.
I should read way more literature, I haven’t read enough.
I read a lot on buses though, commuting into town,
So need stuff I can pick up, get to work with, then put down.
Highbrow books don’t lend themselves to reading on the train,
While half asleep, surrounded by the sweaty and insane.
That’s why I opt for easy reads and far-fetched silly ones,
Where people say amusing things and blow things up with guns.
I really should aim higher with my literary choices,
Expose myself to knowledge and impressive authors’ voices,
But that takes loads of effort, which I really tend to lack –
If there’s a Rushdie and a Rankin, it’s the second one I pack.
I read stuff I can manage, not the books I think I should,
And if Richard Madeley likes it, then you know it must be good.

I’ve ruined what I’m cooking,
A culinary crime.
I’ve over-herbed my casserole,
A total waste of thyme.

An old-school British bobby,
In his helmet with his strap,
In modern New York City
With a sidekick who can rap.
This wacky mismatched duo
Will patrol the city’s streets,
Accompanied by sound effects
And pounding hip-hop beats.
While he sometimes gets confounded
(“What the devil’s crystal meth?”)
He’s a badass with his truncheon,
Beating criminals to death.
And through all these misadventures,
Hip-hop partner’s got his back,
Saying things like “Man, you crazy!”
And “Inspector, you is wack!”
Combining real-life issues
With time-travel and panache,
The audience will lap it up,
And I’ll make loads of cash.

The people speak of Athos, the eldest Musketeer,
A man whose reputation none shall ever dare to smear.
And people speak of Aramis, a soldier yet a bounder,
Whose skill upon the battlefield would make a villain flounder.
And people speak of Porthos, a hero pure of heart,
Seeking of attention yet with knowledge to impart.
Which brings us to d’Artagnan, the hero of the age,
Whose exploits were immortalised on Dumas’ printed page.
And yet there was another man, who history denies,
Ignored by Alexandre in his manuscript of lies,
And left behind in time although a hero just the same:
He came up with the lava lamp, and Mathmos was his name.

Sometimes I do kick-ass things but people aren’t impressed,
When I shout into their faces how I rule and I’m the best,
How I’m better than they’ll ever be, and handsome, strong and cool,
How my life is great and theirs is shit and honestly, I rule.
I don’t know what it is with them, you’d think that they’d be thrilled,
Encountering a man like me, who’s sexy, buff and skilled,
So I find it unbelievable when people don’t seem fussed,
But I’m awesome and I win at life, so really I’m nonplussed.

She talks of the cosmos, and where it began,
And says that she’s walked on the sun.
I tell her that I am a bean-loving man,
And I ate a load earlier for fun.
She tells me about her last trip up to space,
And the magical creatures she met there.
I push out my farts as we walk to her place,
So there’ll be nothing left when we get there.

“Take this bloody Blu-Tac off!
You’re messing up my paint!
And not so many picture hooks –
Please, show some damn restraint!
And fill my bloody crack up, mate,
It’s always bloody hurting.
And don’t wedge cupboards in too far,
You’re damaging my skirting.”

Ask a global panel,
And many will concur
That British men aren’t handsome,
And never really were.
We’re blotchy when it’s chilly
And scarlet in the heat,
And most of us are thuggish
Or we’re poncy and effete.

My job is being trendy,
A shaker and a mover.
I’ve got a burly minder.
I’ve never touched a hoover.