Guest
Sometimes I get a bit angry But you couldn’t tell, no you couldn’t tell Unless you looked real closely Sometimes I get a bit angry But it’s alright, yes it’s alright Cause I keep it out of sight Inside, deep inside I breast fed ’til I was nine Which my (quack) doctor says is fine And he also says I’d deal with anger better If I wrote about myself in a poem or a letter My mother was a (stupid bitch) caring lady She taught me all I know Although I was a little slow, she never gave up She never let me (slut) down Although she spent a lot of time at the neighbour’s house When my dad was out of town I didn’t walk ’til I was seven, or talk ’til I was ten But neither did Napoleon, according to my (quack, fucking) doctor Who has certificates in frames To substantiate his (dodgy, fucking) claims My father left my mother for the love of a (poontang)... nother And I have a (bastard) brother who I’ve never really known Because me dad moved up to Queensland And he doesn’t have a (bullshit, you fat fuck) telephone In primary school I had trouble making (ashtrays) friends An issue which has become somewhat of a trend The origin of which I can not pretend does not perplex me Although my (quack, fucking) doctor says it’s cool And that loads of (“Fat prick!“ “Shut up, I’m not fat!“) kids at school Have problems with communication And that of course some medication would be wise And combined with more honest self expression Could help me with my issues with emotional repression And at a hundred and eighty bucks a session I think I’ll take the (thieving fat bastard) chap’s advice I quite like (porn) photography And books on (guns) history And I’d like to be a (politician) vet And I feel as I get older I’m more in control of my violent tendencies And when I die (kill)... die I’ll have
