All I Can Do Is Turn A

A Lot Of My Poems Are About How Ill I Am And How I Probably Won't Live Beyond Next Week. I Publish A Poem And Everyone Says 'cluck Cluck, How Wonderful, How Brave', But Then Embarrassingly I'm Still Here! You See The Problem?

As A Work Of Art, It Reminds Me Of A Long Conversation Between Two Drunks

Delivering The State Of The Union? That Bloke Couldn't Deliver Pizza.

They Had A... Dog Called Bluey. A Know Psychopath, Bluey Would Attack Himself If Nothing Else Was Available.

When You Cut It Up, Put The Pieces In Your Mouth And Swallowed Them, The British Hamburger Shaped Itself To The Bottom On Your Stomach Like Ballast, While Interacting With Your Gastric Juices To Form An Incipient Belch Of Enormous Potential, An Airship Which Had Been Inflated In A Garage. This Belch, When Silently Released, Would Cause People Standing Twenty Yards Away To Start Examining The Soles Of Their Shoes. The Vocalized Version Sounded Like A Bag Of Tools Thrown Into A Bog.