And the Hitachi, hose limp, standing ignored,
Ranted and raged: ‘Once I was adored!
For my function of fuzzy and glistening drum,
But now I’m Worst, and it makes me all glum.’
The tree leaves sighed, and gave it a look:
This rusting cunt was a looser sook.
‘Like Jesper you are, with your dismal dirge,
So please, oh please, get the fuck off my verge.’


And the sofa with his pattern, fading in the sun,
Had a heart that was heavy: he knew he was done:
‘I’m fraying and wearing and ready to burst!
But the farts through the jeans were really the worst.’
Hot jizz! Cold pizza! Night sweats from sleepers!
Emissions like these gave him the creepers.
He knew he was done when, in a store,
His owners saw something they liked much more.

They’re large and they’re brown, and speckled with faeces!
They come from the bums of an unlucky species!
But please tell me why they’re 27 bucks:
Even with discount, that really does suck.
The chicen that laid these had his neck slit,
He saw the knife glisten, and thought, ‘Oh shit:
Unless someone likes me a whole awful lot,
Nothing is getting better. It’s not.’

What sort of wanker writes in haiku?
With his foot of club and his ear of glue?
Where is the sence? What is the reason?
For the obligatory reference to a season?
‘Straight lines by yellow’ – give me a break!
I’d rather shake hands with a one-eyed snake.
You’re off to great places! Today is your day!
Your worstness is waiting, so fuck off and play!