Rough Music

The lyrical musings of Kevin Mitchell, 12 January 2015 — the future.


Gibberish Allsorts

I Date Myself and I Wanna High
I, Tawt Polis

Percy Filth

Strange Things Afoot At The Circle A

The Winner's Lament


I, Tawt Polis

I thought it
You bought it
You dress it up
Distort it
If you don’t like
Deport it
But that’s not the way
I taught it

C.D.B.D. aye-aye
Ion ewe

You wrought it
I fought it
I cross the wires
Report it
Check the mic
Haught it
Then call the rhyme
You short it

Why? Why? Why?
Irn Bru

Only got
Got to get lucky once
But you
Get lucky
Every time

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Percy Filth

Hush, Hush: whispers and stares
Those who don’t like me
Go pull out your hair

Wide load
Snide chode

The butcher
The baker
The vandal stick taker

Doctor gave the prognosis as extreme halitosis
Androgenic alopecia
Leading to myoclonic seizures

Hippocratic wraith to the bottom
Let us go forth and multiply
S.W.A.L.K under your Moon of love
Bare-arsed to north London we rode
On the edge of your wit

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Gibberish Allsorts

I pushed my cart from the lakeside
To the mouth of the Dart
Did a one-eighty
And trudged back again
Peddled my wares
A-hole in my pocketful of cares
Extracted bile from lily-livered dancing bears

Ride the eagle
Bald or golden
Kick that seagull
Daze of old ‘uns

A-play, guitarist
Pox on curses
Born unbred: raised in a circus
Need the dough
Knock the rock
Bella, buoy: ship-in, dry-dock

Extract abject aesthetic shadrach
Prim and portly cross-strut lattice
Albert set square
Twenty-six inch wasted away

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Strange Things Afoot At The Circle A

Kamikaze pilot wails
From hot seat
Mistook her
For siren’s sister
Tamsin Mondial
Theo’s wall clock
Rs ‘n’ all

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The Winner’s Lament

You’re a pound to a penny
Sitting pretty love
I said come on in
Come on in
Step inside

The handful of crowd
Is eating out my charms
From the palm of my pits
To the tip of my yardarm

Sing it clear and loud
Resounding the alarms
The mystery of my wits
The centre of my calm

You could have been
But you never were
Now someone else is
They’re causing quite a stir

Soft-shoe-shuffling over
The soil on your grave
Lauding it over the dance
To the love they never gave

Pissed up, drugged up
Didn’t want to make fuss
Stepped out of his cab
And threw himself under a bus
Come on in
Step inside
One of us

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I Date Myself and I Wanna High

If I
If I had a hammer
I’d be candid with your camera
You’re too selfie-indulgent

If I
If I had a gun
I’d spoil your fun
With my gun

Some days
The world seems so dark
Without even a spark
To lighten my heart

Since you’re asking, I’m dancing
In the middle of a puddle on an island
I’m dry man, no mercy for the cuddle
You’ll be buried in the same box from Ikea

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Return to The Splanchnic Verses

This page © Kevin Mitchell, 2015.