Sonnet For The Boys

It's Friday night, and all my mates are high,
And supping lager from a can somewhere.
The dubstep's on, the speakers boom and blare -
The joints are passed around (but always by
The left-hand side - though no one quite knows why);
The wisps of smoke begin to choke the air,
As each man slumps into his comfy chair:
Their bodies sink as minds take off and fly.
But I'm sat here at work with freezing tits -
Because of hoggish poverty, I'm forced
To babysit some chef from off TV -
I hope his food gives everyone the shits.
As for my friends - I love them all, of course:
I only hope they spark one up for me.

Guy Fawkes' Night

November the 5th. Makes you think, dunnit?

Today, St Peter's School in York

Has little bonfire fun,

Because, of all the boys they taught,

That Guido Fawkes was one,

And you never burn an Old Boy,

No matter what he's done.

So even though he once was caught

With powder by the tun,

When tryin' to blow the king and court

All straight to Kingdom Come –

You never burn an Old Boy,

No matter what he's done.

Yes, even when the lies they talk

Come tripping off the tongue,

And plain to see, behind the thought,

They're shafting ev'ryone,

You never burn an Old Boy,

No matter what he's done.

So, when you face the cuts you fought,

When all the spin is spun;

When you're furious, distraught

At how the country's run:

You can't go burning Old Boys,

No matter what they’ve done.

And if, one day, you take a walk

And pass by Old E-Ton,

You'll never see them torch a doll

Of David Cameron,

'Cos you never burn an Old Boy –

So go and get a gun.