Page Three Manifesto (has massive tits)

That what’s-her-name and what’s-her-nipples
makes my bobby’s helmet dribble
gallons of salami-slime,
of feller-fat, of bollock-brine,
and so I’ll choke the chicken, syphon
my gigantic spitting python,
bash the bishop, pump the parson,
whack my whopping Willie Carson,
spraying my gentleman-juice,
my cock-custard, my manly mousse,
my jizz-jars’ jap’s-eye jam across
my Calvins and my Hugo Boss
and think to drink her burrow-brew
as she guzzles my geezer-goo
‘cause I’m a geezer! I’m a geezer,
loaded with maxims on how to please ‘er,
but you’re a dung-digger, a jacksy-jockey,
you like to play at haemorrhoid-hockey,
at turd-tennis, at crap-croquet,
at shit-shinty. You fucking gay.
Hur-hur. Page Three. Birds. Tits.
Gossip. Jewellery. Hairy bits.
Champions’ League. Dirty vicars.
Pics of duchesses in their knickers.
God save the Queen and the P.M.
U.S. spells us, E.U. spells them.
Without the Yanks the war was lost.
Them Russian cunts just fucking dossed.
And then we paid to help the Krauts.
No fucker paid to help us out.
The NHS is full of wogs.
Eye-ties. Paddies. Jockos. Frogs.
Sheep-shagging Taffs with stupid names.
Send ‘em back to where they came.
I’m Anglo-Saxon, that’s what I’m.
Been here since the dawn of time.
Two world wars and one world cup.
D’you like my new bull terrier pup?
Shit on pavements. Savaged babies.
At least it ain’t got fucking rabies.