Outrage Sunday 305 verge meeting

The four horsemen of the Apocalypse
After a bloody trip to The Wine Box
Had tempranillo and barbeque chips,
Wanted to chill out, kick back, and detox.
But they had been usurped on Fortune Street
By The Voice quartet and their pearly whites.
Said Death: “What the fuck? Listen cunts: retreat.”
But Delta, the sun blazing her highlights,
Said: “Take your emaciated nags, go:
The neighbours here all have innocent eyes
They are more interested in Jon Snow
And what emerges from my golden thighs.”
The riders, defeated, got on the train
To Freo, and went busking in the rain.

This entry was posted in Uncategorisable Worsts, Worst poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to Outrage Sunday 305 verge meeting

  1. Rong1 says:

    Why is the wall so stark?


  2. you'll get wet says:

    This an early Eddie Burrup titled Fraudulent Waters or How I got Away with it When Others Would’v’e Been Charged. I can see a subincised Boab just screaming to pierce something pink on the inside. Can you?


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