Sir Harry Wotton

To God, I’m Ill

You’re the universe but that’s just pain in me now
Crying on the couch loveless and miserable sick
I need a drop of Christ’s weepings or something
It’s not a matter for hospital beds and hypodermics
An ear of David’s seed to suck and chew so you
Can drown me out of the world Christ son bought
With his life and that’s still not good enough for you.
Get off your arse you fat fuck, prove you’re the God
Of love and not a Satan in universal robes. I’m ill
Because of you. It hurts.

Queen B

Stars have nothing on your eyes except numbers
And more than two would be weird kinky
You’re the bee that brings in the spring humming
Over birds with their cheap autotune your bass
Vibrating the flowers into pollination neither
Violets or roses or any other kind of colour
Beats your black and yellow back your arse
Wobbles the best dance eclipses those virgin
Queens and hovering over me I pull on your sharp
Stinger to feed.

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