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The French
Kate and Mike
Kate:
Oh, how I hate the fucking French,
The stupid hairy fuckers,
The ones that ride their crappy bikes,
The chefs, the clowns, the truckers.
The beret wearing, spitting Frogs,
Their breath stinks worse than cack.
Oh, how I wish they'd all fuck off
And not fucking well come back.

Oh, how I shit those garlic twats,
Those vino tanked up spackers.
I'd like to burn them all alive,
Stick needles in their knackers.
I'd make them eat their own foul food,
Their stinking French shite mess.
Oh, how I hate the fucking French,
They murdered our princess.

Mike:
I disagree. I love the French,
They really are fine fellows.
They sure know how to make good wine,
Rich and smooth and mellow.
It's they who make my favourite cheese
Roquefort Socit.
So, say hoorah for the French!
I'd have them any day.

Sure, they slaughtered our princess
But she was such a whore.
In fact, as far as I'm concerned
They can take a whole load more.
And they can have some princes
And a fat duchess for free.
So come, you French, let's see once more
Madame Guillotine!

Kate:
The French are scum! They really are.
I don't know how you dare
To say they're nice when they don't shave
Their scabby armpit hair.
They drip with grease and stink like shite,
They're really quite unclean.
So, don't say that you like the French,
When that you do not mean.

Just think of all their crappy films,
Pretentious, dull and long,
With Gerard Dippy Doo-lah Day,
With his 14 foot long shlong,
And when I think of 'mime artistes'
It gives me bad the jitters.
I'd like to take their stripey shirts
And shove them up their shitters.

I'd take their silly Eiffel tower
And bung it in their bums,
And then I'd burn down all their shops
And chop up all their nuns.
I'd wipe my arse upon their flag,
I'd do just as I please.
The French suck but they DO make wine
And rather pleasant cheese.

Mike:
But that's my point, you cloth-eared bint
They make fine wines and cheeses.
Johnny Frog can make crap films
And do just what he pleases.
I don't have to watch them
And I need not see them mime.
But if they stopped wine and cheese,
That would be a crime.

I don't care if they don't know
How to use a flannel.
Their smell is kept away from me
By the English Channel.
You're being xenophobic,
You just hate them 'cos they're foreign.
You've done this far to often
And it's getting rather boring.

Why, oh why, are all your poems
Filled with animosity?
All this hate and anger
Is a sure sign of pomposity.
So let us please embrace the French
And hold them to our bosom
(Metaphorically of course,
For they are our smelly cousins).

Kate:
Look you fucking piece of shit,
Don't be so damned defensive,
It's not like ALL my writing is
Obcene or that offensive.
The French are just fair game is all,
They smell and spit and curse,
So don't think that I'm being mean,
It really could be worse.

I could have said the French are cunts,
And riddled with foul vermin,
I could have said they were the same,
As any bloke that's German,
I could have said they suck the shit
From out a scabby rim,
But I didn't 'cos I'm NICE like that,
My words are not that grim.

So take your words of hate and crap,
And shove them up your shitter,
I will not care because I know
That you're just feeling bitter.
You LOVE it when I say rude stuff,
You know deep down it's true,
And if it's not, well never mind,
Fuck off. And bugger you.

Mike:
Well, screw you too, you fucked up slag,
You rancid minging tart.
All you do is spew foul words,
How can you call that art?
It isn't big, it isn't clever,
It isn't even funny.
Don't think that it will impress
Or earn you any money.

All your poems are foul and gross
And riddled with obscenities.
I tell you girl I'm getting fucked off
By your crap profanities.
They made you look a total cunt,
They make my shit hang sideways.
I'd make you eat the fucking lot
If I could have things my way.

So shut your cunting whinging gob
And cut out all the crap.
You're nothing but a vile old hag
With fishy smelling flaps.
You pick the lice from out your minge
And put them in your tea.
'Cos otherwise you'd only have
A cup of stale old pee.

Kate:
Oh shut your rancid reptile gob,
Its sound offends my ear.
You don't know what you're on about,
I'm afraid that's very clear.
You of all should know by now,
You shouldn't make me mad,
Or else you life could start to get
Really really bad.

I'll get the train and hunt you down,
I'll find out where you work,
And somewhere in the building I
Will sit and wait and lurk,
And watch you with my eyes of steel
Until the time is right,
When you work late, all on your own,
One dark and stormy night.

And from the shadows I will jump,
And give a shreiking yell,
And you will think Satan himself,
Has appeared from firey Hell.
You'll drop down on your bended knee
And beg me to be saved,
But I'll just laugh and laugh and laugh,
Because I'm so depraved.

I'll stick some Blu-tak on your nose,
Put staples in your shirt,
And whack you with your mouse mat 'til
It starts to really hurt.
I'll take your posh computer,
And I'll stab it with a pen,
And when I'm done I'll bloody well
Just do it all again.

I'll chase you round the office,
And I'll call you "twat" and "knob",
And THEN you'll know what nasty things
Can come out of my gob.
I'll pull my tongue out rudely,
Blow raspberries in your tea,
So you'd better say you're sorry,
Or in London I will be.

Mike:
Come on then, you fuck-wit whore,
If you think you're hard enough.
I'll show you that all your words
Are just a load of parp and guff.
Plague me not with empty threats
Of deeds you can't deliver.
You're nothing but an arsey cow
And sure don't make me quiver.

So, come to London, I'll not hide.
I'll not run or cower.
I'll slap you like a stupid bitch,
You got that right? Eh, flower?
Let you get your mits out
You'll soon see that you are wrong.
I'll simply throw back out on
The streets where you belong

Kate:
Oh hark at thee! You think I'm scared?
You think I'll quake and quiver?
You're nothing but a giblet, Mike,
All spleen and lily liver.
You threaten me with words so tough
But I know what is right.
You're weedier than Lionel Blair
And softer than his shite.

It makes me laugh to think of how
YOU could beat me in a scrap.
The weapons you might use on me,
I'm sure they would be crap.
You'd play some metal really loud
Or read me Terry Pratchett,
And in the meantime, I would kill
You with a fuck-off hatchet.

You'd whack me with the wizard's wand
You use for D&D,
Or make me watch god awful stuff
Like Star Trek T.N.G.
You'd bore me with computers,
But I would just not care,
Because I'm hard as houses
And I just will not fight fair.

And while you're busy 'fighting',
I will just stand back and giggle,
Until you're sad and crying,
All dripping wet with dribble,
And begging "Please don't hit me,
I can't take any more!"
And maybe I'd have mercy...
Nah! I'd punch you to the floor.

Mike:
Pffft... pffffttt.... pffffftttt......
Har har har har haaarrrrr
Oh dearie lawd, don't make me laugh
You're too absurd by far.
Oh hee hee heee... it's true to say
A tear is in my eye.
My paroxyms of chuckles
Are just bound to make me cry.

Ohhhh ho ho ho ho, ho ho ho
Yeah, sure I'm on the floor.
I can't get up - I'm crippled
By the mightiest guffaw.
Stoppit! Stoppit! Please, I beg,
I can't cope with your humour.
I've laughed so much I think I might
Just go and burst a tumour.

Excuse me just a minute please
While I catch my breath.
I wonder if you're going to try
Shopping me to death.
I'm sorry, Kate, it's just the thought
Of you defeating me.
Or perhaps you've got some hideous
Deadly recipe.

Or are you going to try and eat
A cheese sandwich at me?
Oh no, you've set me off again
Hee hee hee hee heeeee.
Ohhh, mercy me... can't take no more...
You're driving me quite mental.
I'd have a harder time if I'd
To fight against a lentil.

Kate:
Oh fuck yourself, you rancid corpse,
And fuck yourself some more,
And when you're done, go fuck your mum,
We all know she's a whore,
With sagging breasts and hairy arse,
And teeth of black and green.
Your mam's a slag, and we all know
Exactly where she's been.

You say a lentil you'd find hard
To fight? Well ha ha ha.
That's because you're busy
Faffing in your mam's best bra.
Your head is down between her legs,
The smell is bad, like poo.
But you don't mind that any more,
'Cause your wife smells that way too.

Mike:
Oh dearie me, oh dearie me,
I must have touched a nerve,
For you to get all cross like that
With gusto and with verve.
I think that you've got poem rage
And it's making your blood boil.
You really ought to cool it
Or your pants you're going to soil. (Again)

Try to think of soothing things
Try saying "Calm blue ocean".
Or take a nice relaxing bath
With lavender and camomile lotion.
It's pointless getting all het up
Don't be a silly wench,
Or you'll turn out like those fucked up
Hot headed bastard French.

Kate:
You're right, my friend, let's get on track,
We should not fight like this.
Our attentions now should lie on those
That stink of cheese and piss.
Our stripey t-shirt brothers
Who do dwell across the sea,
And sell us what we think is wine,
But they know is just wee.

Those foul, unpleasant French men
With their silly facial hair,
And their bloody rubbish music,
Their "mais oui" and "je suis fair".
Why don't they just all fuck off,
And just leave us? Oh God please,
Just leave us all their lovely booze,
And their lovely, lovely cheese.

I'm sorry that we quarrelled Mike,
It made me feel quite sad,
You know I didn't mean it when
I hinted you were mad,
And I really DO like Star Trek,
More than you'll ever know,
Oh lovely, lovely Mikey,
I really love you so.

Mike:
Oh Katy, Katy, Katy,
You know I love you too.
I hate it when we row and fight,
I really, really do.
So let us bury the hatchet
And to show you how I feel,
Please let me take you out
For a lovely slap up meal.

I know this place in Islington,
An authentic French bistro.
They use the finest ingredients,
No Oxo cubes or Bisto.
They squeeze you in a narrow space,
Your table's much too small.
You feel like you are in Provence,
Not Islington at all.

The waiters all are arrogant,
The manager is rude,
Unseen inside the kitchen
Their chef wanks into your food.
You can't get wines from Italy,
Or Spain or California,
They'll only serve you French ones,
I thought I'd better warn you.

So, come, oh come and dine with me
Where steaks are red with blood.
Let's tell their accordion player
That he isn't very good.
Let's eat their tiny portions
And I'll pay their massive bill,
And next day in the morning
We can both feel rather ill.

Kate:
Oh Mike! Oh can we really?
It sounds so very nice,
And if it's true you're paying,
You don't need ask me twice.
We'll sit down by the window
And dine on pont l'eveque,
And several pints of chardonnay
We'll very swiftly neck.

We'll wear our favourite berets
And onions on a rope,
And any passing ladies
We'll ogle, letch and grope.
We'll listen to French music,
The kind with panting sounds,
And I'll order from the menu.
It will cost you lots of pounds.

And when we've had our dinner
We'll drink their wine some more,
And puke a lot and fall down
Whilst singing "O l'amour".
We'll wreck the joint in seconds,
Create foul mess and stench,
And all because our love is true,
And we can't stand the French.

Mike:
And then we'll get obnoxious
And we'll sing some rugby songs
And then we'll flash our arses
At whoever comes along.
They'll all be most impressed by
My Union Jack underpants,
We know they love the British
'Cos we're the saviours of France.

They'll just need some reminding
Of how we bailed them out
When their cruddy little country
Once did fall to Johnny Kraut
So we'll sing some Vera Lynn songs
And we'll make the victory sign
And we'll toast Sir Winston Churchill
With a welly full of wine.

Then we'll do impersonations
Of Napolean Bonaparte
With our hands inside our waistcoats
And the menu for a hat
We'll toast the Duke Of Wellington,
Lord Horatio Nelson too,
And we'll sing a hearty chorus
Of Abba's "Waterloo".

Kate:
Oh, it really does sound lovely!
And you know, I think you're right.
Perhaps the French are, after all,
OK and not that shite.
I love their fragrant vineyards
And their cooking tastes divine
And I do believe I've mentioned
How I love their cheese and wine.

I love their gooey croissants
And their funny sticks of bread,
And their pain au chocolate does not,
Fill my heart with dread.
I love their moulles, their oysters,
Their onion soup's good too,
But get away from me with those snails!
I would rather eat my poo.

Mike:
Uuuurrgghhhh! Snails! Eeeuuuuurrrgghhhh!
How can they eat those things?
Oh God, and frogs' legs too!
That really truly mings.
The French, they are disgusting,
Worse than a dose of scabies.
They'd eat a block of goose fat
And I bet they eat their babies.

No, dear Kate, you can't be right,
The French are not that nice.
They eat the most revolting things,
Nob warts and pubic lice.
I can't believe you like these people,
Kate, you make me sick.
If you think the French are good
You must be pretty thick.

Or maybe you are French yourself,
And lead a double life.
Perhaps you are some scummy Froggy's
Filthy, smelly wife.
I bet your body hair is long,
I bet you never wash,
I bet you think a bar of soap,
Is pretty fucking posh!

Kate:
Mike, Oh Mike, Oh Mikey,
I hear you - and you're right!
But I have a small confession -
I ate frogs' legs the other night!
It was so very scary
As they came upon a plate,
And we were forced to eat them -
But boy did they taste great!

Salty, warm and spicy,
And yummy as can be.
Oh how I wished that frogs
Could have more legs, maybe three?
So I could eat more of them,
Those lovely little things,
Much nicer than prawn cocktail,
Or spicy chicken wings.

So it seems the French have something right,
By eating legs off frogs,
And next time I'm in a Chinese joint,
I'll have a bash at dogs,
And when I go Japanese-style,
It's monkey brains for me!
Oh I'm so happy, full of joy!
And French I'd gladly be.

Mike:
Infamy! Infamy!
Treachery and treason!
Your ill-found fondness of the French
Is truly beyond reason.
Don't be French! Don't be French!
You'll soon be eating dung.
And when you're going for a snog
You'll have to use your tongue!

And when you go to have a shit
You stand up in the wet,
And then you squirt your arsehole
With an ice cold water jet.
And then they get a ten foot pole
And ram it up your arse
And get the local rugby team
To felch you with Mars bars.

And then they'll get a ferret
And they'll shove it up your twat
And rub into your eyes and ears
The semen of a cat.
And then they strip you naked
And procede to make you drink
A cup of armadillo bile
And lymph and phlegm. (I think.)

Kate:
Do they really chew on semen?
Mmm, I'm not sure I would try.
Their frogs legs were quite lovely
But less salty and more dry,
And chewy like some chicken,
Not all slimey like some snot.
The French can keep their semen!
No, I'd really rather not.

And if they DO eat semen,
Perhaps they don't stop there!
D'you think they dine on Arse of Duck
Sliced thinly and served rare?
Or maybe Tit of Cow they'd eat,
All wobbly in a dish,
Or monkeys' sputum in a sauce,
Atop a stinking fish.

Do they really eat used bog roll?
And vomit, shit and bile?
Do they chew each others' logs then?
Are they really quite that vile?
Are they really quite that filthy?
My God! The dreadful stench!
Those rancid, putrid, horrid,
Nasty, shitty, crappy French!

Mike:
Oh yes, in fact it's worse than that,
The French aren't what they seem.
They're alien subterranean beings
Like from your darkest dreams.
They come up to the surface
Where they plant their evil spawn
In the bodies of us humans
So their offspring will be born.

They'll eat the healthy foetus
Of a pregnant mother's womb
To give their own foul issue
More gestation room.
The creature then procedes to eat
Its host's internal parts
'Til it occupies the body whole,
Not needing to depart.

It's now become a Frenchman
And its diet remains gory.
We've seen the things it feeds upon
Earlier in this story,
And that is why they're so grotesque
And eat such obscene things,
And that is why they've secretly
Got pointy teeth and wings.

Kate:
Oh what a crock of horse shit Mike,
Pointy Teeth indeed!
We all know that the French are not
A gross, unnatural breed!
Why, all the French that come to mind
Are creatures of great beauty!
Let me tell you what I mean -
I feel it is my duty.

Isobel Adjani? is she French?
Well she's al-bleedin'-right,
And Beatrice Dall is fit as well,
Although her films are shite,
And Bridget Bardot springs to mind,
SHE'S not a big fat moo,
And that bloke from Leon was quite cute,
And Gerard Dippity-Doo.

Serge Gainsbourg, Chris Lambert,
Even Hercules Poirot,
None of them are super-fit,
But not bad either though,
They defo don't have pointy teeth,
My God, I ask you, please!
And if more proof is needed,
Well look at Vanessa Paradis!

She's bloody shagging Johnny Depp!
The lucky, lucky bitch,
And anyone who shags that man,
Is NOT a gnarled old witch,
And what about Ginola?
Do you think he's rancid too?
A thousand ladies cream their pants,
When he comes into view.

And what about the porno stars?
The large-lipped pouting chicks?
With low-cut tops and crotchless pants,
They perform impressive tricks,
The men are firm and so well hung,
Their buttocks hard when clenched,
Oh how I wish, I really do,
That I could just get frenched.

Mike:
Be careful what you wish for
Or you might find it comes true.
There's one more thing that I have not
Yet disclosed to you.
The reason why I know these things
As you're about to see
Is, one day what I spoke about
Did just occur to me.

In Islington's fair borough
I dined in a French restaurant.
And as I went to have a piss
A Froggy bloke did come along.
And as I held my old chap
Whilst standing at the urinal,
I caught him staring in my eyes
And knew my days were final.

For now I saw his eyes glow red
And horns sprout from his head.
His teeth grew long and pointy
And his dark wings they did spread.
I ejaculated, "Oh, my God!
I see you are the Beast!
I thought you were a Frenchman!
Or Belgian at the least."

He said, "Indeed, and such I am,
But only those like me,
Other Frenchy people, can
Our true appearance see."
"But I'm not French!" I did complain.
"How come I see your form?"
He laughed an evil cackle,
"Mon ami, that's where you're wrong..."

He then produced a baguette
Of an improbable size
Which he wielded like a weapon.
I could not believe my eyes.
"Haw he haw he haw he haw!"
Was all he'd now impart
As he thrust his mighty stick of bread
Straight into my heart.

A cloud of crumbs then showered me
I fell onto the floor
I felt that I was changing
And I was English no more.
I staggered back up to my feet
And, boy, how I did reek.
But I smiled upon the Frenchman
And I kissed him on both cheeks.


So, haw he haw he haw he haw
Now I am a Frenchman,
And Kate, my mate, it is your fate
That you will be my henchman.
It's far to late to run, so
Don't be a silly wench.
Feel the thrust of my baguette -
I'm about to make you French!

Kate:
Oh, get that bread away from me!
It reeks of Frenchness foul!
I will not have its thrusting crust
Intruding on my bowel.
I can't and shall not turn to French,
So set about your worst.
You'll never, ever pull it off,
You'd have to kill me first.

Your spitting mouth and droopy 'tash,
They have no business here.
Your garlic stinking breath of doom,
You're quite, quite French I fear.
Oh Mikey! Mikey! Is it true?
Please tell me that it's not!
Or I shall open up my arse
And stuff it with a yacht.

Mike:
Foolish, foolish words, my friend,
You surely do not know
The powers of my one point three
Four metres of baked dough.
No power on earth can save you now
Not even your mum or granny.
Every part of you will be as
Smelly as your fanny.

And so I raise my lengthy loaf
Preparing for the plunge
Your body will just yield to it
As though it were a sponge.
"Haw he haw he haw he haw!"
Is all I have to say
And as I strike a perfect hit
I cry out loud, "Touch!"

Kate:
A perfect hit? Don't make me laugh!
You couldn't hit a nailed down giraffe!
Your brain is mush, your eyes all squiffy,
Too long, too close to your arse so whiffy.
Your mouth is droopy,
Your nose like Snoopy,
I don't know why you think you're hard,
But I've seen you naked! It's just skin and lard!
You think I'm just some passive wench,
That you can turn from Brit to French
Whenever the fancy deems to strike?
You think that you can do this, Mike?
Well, heed my words, and heed them well,
Not EVER will you make me smell,
Like croissants, buttered tall and thick,
Or cheese that stinks of someone's sick,
Or vineyards ripe with fruit and sun,
Or currents from some Frenchman's bun,
Or French salami, moist and pink,
I'll never be French! I don't care what you think!
I'd rather be a rampant wombat.
And just to prove it, I'm messing with this poem's format!

Anarchy! Sweet anarchy!
I will not let you repress me!
You might be French but you'll never undress me!

And if I want
I'll refuse to make
This rhyme
Or scan
As well.
Just so you can tell
I will never smell.
So go to Hell.
You're nothing but a pissed up tramp living on a park bench.

And you will never make me French.

Mike:
Zut Alors! This cannot be!
How can you do this thing to me?
The one thing we creatures cannot stand
Is sudden breaks in a long poem's scan.
How did you know? And know too well
That what you did would break the spell
And release me from my Frenchness
Oh merde! I can't find anything to rhyme with "Frenchness"!

Uuuurrrrrggghhhh!!
I'm changing...
Aaaaarrrrggggghhhhhhh!!!
Rearranging...

My beret's fallen off my head
My stripey shirt has turned plain red
The string of onions round my neck
Has shivelled up! Oh flippin' heck!
And now my cheroot has gone out,
I've fallen off my bike... ouch!
The trusty baguette by my side
Is now a loaf of Mother's Pride!
I could not eat one more frog's leg,
I want a vindaloo instead.

And as I feel my last remnants of Frenchness disappear
I can see once more, so crystal clear,
That I am English, through and through!
Gor Blimey, I feel such a fool,
I can't believe that I have been
Possessed by such an evil being.
Kate, my friend, you've saved my life
And spared me from torment and strife.
I ought to kiss you on the lips,
But instead I'll just go get some fish and chips.

Kate:
That's my man! I'm proud of you!
You're not French! You're truest blue!
As English as a Stilton ripe,
Or fish and chips, or pies, or tripe.
As British as a nice pork pie,
No reptile limbs I've seen you fry!

So tek thee off thy stripey shirt,
And get thee d'an the pit wi' dirt,
And get thee back ter Leeds wi' wife,
Or A'll beat you ter wi' inch er yer life.

And when A've finished wi' yer arse,
A'll go round ter yer mam's posh 'ouse,
An' tek 'er telly, nick 'er bag,
An' shag 'er 'cause yer mam's a slag.

Mike:
Ee! By 'eck! That's really grand!
'Tis good to live in fair England.
And now that things are back to normal
It's time to conclude with the moral

Which is... well, just don't be French, I guess.
They're people with whom you don't want to mess.

But this advice is lost, I fear.
'Cos no one will have have read to here.
This poem is far too long, I say,
We've lost our readers on the way,
And anyone who still is reading
Has to be some fuckin', bleedin'
Stupid tosser with no brain
Or sense to come in from the rain.

So let us pack it in right now,
It's time for us to take a bow.
And if there's someone still out there,
Well... do we really care?

FIN
THE END




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