Swindon 'Til I Die...

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
A poem about a typical average waster from any typical average town

Submitted: July 22, 2011

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Submitted: July 22, 2011




He's the loner with the boner

The constant fucking moaner

Who rarely ventures out past Carfax Street...

Hour after hour

Sat in the Murray John Tower

Fills himself with diet Coke and sweets...

He's a boring little bastard

By 3 o'clock he's plastered

And hasn't worked for years due to ill health...

He twice weekly visits Menzies

With reckless buying frenzies

His magazines are all off the top shelf...

By six he's in a coma

Carries a strange aroma

And once almost got stabbed in Theatre Square...

He wears ill-fitting trackie bottoms

His teeth are loose and rotten

And he shaves his head to cover a lack of hair...

He is a regular in Corals

He has no fuckin' morals

And the brand new Library is his favourite place...

Somehow he thinks he looks like Arnie

As he eats his bacon sarnie

And runny egg trickles down his face...

Once a fortnight he signs on

He knows his chance has long gone

To work at Honda and drive a Civic car...

So he settles for his giro

His Sun crossword and Biro

And fills it in while sat in the Casbah...

He's a useless, boring twat

Who wears a gopping hat

And buys all his clothes from TK Maxx...

Through binoculars he spies

Ladies bras' and flies

While he gorges himself silly on savoury snacks...

Once a year he goes to Weston

With his favourite shorts and vest on

To stare at girls that sunbathe on the beach...

He thinks women all adore him

But if you ever saw him

You'd know he was greasy leching leach...

He sits picking at his arse

As he stares out of the glass

From twelve floors he can see the County Ground...

Tells everyone he meets

That the silly plastic seats

Are made for people under ninety pound...

That's his excuse for never going

Not his belly that keeps on growing

Filled with Pizza bought from Papa John...

He has his special mucker

A smelly little fucker

A 'lifter' who he sometimes calls upon...

Once a month he crashes over

And parks his dead Dad's Rover

On double yellow lines in Fleming Way...

They stay up 'til early morn

On a diet of speed and porn

And part to go about their normal day...

He strolls down to the Bank

But not before he's had a wank

'Cos his day would never quite be the same...

If he had'nt ejaculated

Or in Corals speculated

And had a fiver on the outcome of the game...

The constant fucking moaner

The loner with the boner

Has never married and he has no kids...

'Cos he will never find

The girl with a great behind

Or anyone to wash his filthy skids...

He is a Doner Kebab lover

Got the habit from his mother

Who once got nicked soliciting in Town...

He says she was a victim

But as she quickly licked him

A copper caught her with her knickers down...

He is one of those you swerve

And loiters like a perv

To watch the students getting on the bus...

He itches at his boils

While eyeing up the spoils

And pops his whiteheads that are full of puss...

He gets back to his flat

Takes off his gopping hat

And rests to let the sweat dry on his skin...

Looks at his shirt signed by Macari

Turns on his old Atari

Dreams of perhaps one day being thin...

Knows that this will never be

'Cos he is forty three

And that much fat is very hard to lose...

Why change the habit of his life

On-line sex, no wife

And trays of take-away and bargain booze...


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