This Sunday
go fuck yourself.
Sure, drink up first. Tear up the leaflet.
Spray Killroy was here on the surprise.
Punch the universe - you're equal weight;
both in your head, a paper said.
In the worst case (oh, fuck!)
this is a big place (funny...)
you can't be found out (can you?)
Besides, there's this French book
(or Spanish; who cares?
There’ll be just one word left)
with a number of words
and up-market syntax,
so you're cool.
Now, for Christ's sake!,
tell her,
tell your dead granny
to chuck the silly beads away
and stop moaning - you're trying
to watch something.
Yes, get another one for me too.
And then go and fuck yourself.
(In case you wondered:
this is not a poem,
this is Go Fuck Yourself)
