Wednesday, June 9, 2010

Shut yer bloody Venus fly trap

Yer reckon ya got the goods
Then she laughs like a brayin' donkey
and yer feel the kick in yer guts like one.
'er clothes are owrigh'
Bit flash for Collins Street toffs but she'll do.
Then she opens 'er trap and lets rip.
She's blousy, the old bird, sheila, girl,
On the game too long wif no care no more,
And don't dress propa none, too.
She bends ov'r to snatch the dropped purse and yer see
A sight so crass
yer blush and shrink in shame.