Out Of Character?

I like dropping fings.
Like T's and H's,
heirs and graces.
Feologian's feorys on fespian finking mean nothing to me.
Poking dog shit with a stick, 
that's more my cup of tea.

I like fighting fings.
Like self obsession,
the possession of a whole,
fucking,
hole.
A spirit and a soul.
The head hunters at home,
or away.
The crush behind the loft end goal.
The one that threatened to swallow us,
messed up working class kids.
Then did.

I like killing fings.
Like bacon that goes with egg.
Hope that sings with a classical tone.
Memories,
of enemies and insouciant family connections.
Verbose insincere verbal plasters.
My own skin and bone.

I like saying stuff,
that everyone else does,
or doesn't.
Fings like,
'enough is enough,
I can't go on much longer.'
Six of me and half dozen of some other.
Don't call me brother.
If you do I'll call you a vagina,
of sorts.

I like writing shit.
A bit like this.

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