poem

The smell of hell has come to sell The burgeoning desire of flesh and metal The hunters of the hunted become the hunted Themselves By a superior race Crush the flower Under your foot

I may be down on the outside, but I'm standing up on the inside.

In all of Oz there is no wus Like the short-tailed flatbilled duckypus It hides among the jub-jub trees Playing card games with its fleas Then when it's lost the final hand

After deciding to create an investigative blog, the next thing I had to do was find a subject to investigate. I sat around for a while scratching my arse, drinking too much coffee.

She learnt that she was not stupid nor thick; just crazily mad!

It was only her rocking shair that stayed still!