Sunday, December 25, 2011

Festive Season Plea from a Depressed and Potless Smirk

Down, I am, dejected and depressed. I had to cancel our Winter Festival, because the Hubberholme Throat Singers wouldn't come - they said I hadn't paid them for last time (not true - we made them Lancashire hot-pot laced with psilocybin shrooms), the women's drum circle have all pleaded colds, and the men's dance group are in Morocco. Only Sister Splitblister was available, and she'salways nagging on about Vatican male power structures, whatever they are.

So here is my lament and plea:

Sod it!
We're out of pot.
Are all we've got.
Half a kilo -
That's not a lot.

Good will
And all that crap
'S phooey.
Don't give a rap
For Santa -
He's just a sap.

My grandad
Told me so.
Said God
'S a myth also.
(Cambridge man -
He ought to know).

All my
Disciples fled.
It's what I said -
'That Nietzsche
Wrote, "God is dead"'

My cult
Don't pay no more.
Need cash
And that's for sure.
Most of all
I need to score.

Restores my soul.
Soon things
Begin to roll,
Roll me
Out of this hole.

C. Hitchens spoke,
'S a cruel joke."
So why pray,
When you can toke?


Some grass to smoke!