Posh 'ouse.
Shit floats in loobloo. Its not mine.
Stinking island in a springclearfresh ocean.
Bobbing.
On its Northern shores tiny turd people munch on giant sweetcorn chunks.
From bakedbeany lumps they erect statues, giant characaturds of their gods.
They dont mind the smell, they have all they have their squables to entertain them, their little wars and grumbles over the disaffected yoof.
Odd isnt it, i think, when i find a sight so displeasing that i dont want to piss on it, defile my piss.
I smother them with an ultrasoftcushionquilted sheet of colourcoordinated skatrag.
A dense fog blankets down on the tiny turd folk and their winnet babes cry as the oceans rage and i flush them away.
Bye tiny little islanders.
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