From the Sonnets, Mostly Bristolian
Sonnet 78
Where to begin dissecting Russell Brand?
The matted rug’s quite Da’esh Caliphate.
Ditto the beard. The overactive glans
in God knows what kind of infectious state.
Creeping towards belated middle age,
the weeping winkie of this Peter Pan
has petered out, beset by phallophage.
May God have mercy on the ghastly man,
who can’t afford to put sleeves on his shirts.
Lo! On his mattress stuffed with last year’s pranks
this yahoo reeking worse than his own dirt
unglues his Bookywook and limply wanks.
He says he wants a revolution. Well,
he’ll need a lot of antiseptic gel.
