A World War One poem by Siegfried Sissy

Mud.
Mud everywhere.
Honestly, I can't get over how muddy it is.

I'm covered.


In the stuff.

Mother sent some clean socks,
But I accidentally dropped them in the mud.

I bloody hate mud.

Like a broken record

People always tell me I’m like a broken record,
Because I keep telling them about my collection of broken records.
I wonder if I’ve broken a record,
For the biggest collection of broken records.
I asked them at the office of broken records,
If there was a record for the biggest collection of broken records,
And they said there was already a broken record,
For the biggest collection of broken records.
A man in America has ten thousand broken records,
Which has broken my record,
Because I have only three hundred broken records,
And if I want to achieve a broken record,
I’d need to get a lot more broken records.
So I’m always on the lookout for broken records,
To add to my collection of broken records,
And maybe one day I’ll have a broken record,
For the biggest collection of broken records,
But first, I need to find nine thousand seven hundred and one broken records,
And add them to my three hundred broken records,
If I’m ever to get my own broken record,
For the biggest collection of broken records,
And maybe then I’ll stop sounding like a broken record.

Some Beat Poetry

Knutsford services.
2 AM.
When all the no-good hustlers and dog-tired shylocks scuttle down the M6.
No thanks, man. I'm already a member.
He knows I ain't a member, but he lets it go, 'cause we're brothers, him and me.
Three quid for a Ginster's?
You can't put a price on pasties, man.
I only came in for a cack anyway.


Shabba.