lamb is to virgin as virgin is to shepherd –
olive oil is as plain to see as spots to a leopard
A lamb on the lam has a long way to run
i rest my case, you know that you’re the only one
alive and kicking like a deathly mule standing
firing just on one cylinder like a tooth–guard that needs filling
lamb is to virgin as virgin ios to shepherd –
olive oil is as plain to see as spots to a leopard
39 minutes ago · Like
a lamb on the lam has a long way to run
i rest my case, you know that you’re the only one
alive and kicking like a deathly mule standing
firing just on one cylinder like a tooth–guard that needs filling
the last mule standing is as sterile as the first
pointedly pointing our what is not the last may well be the first
spitting tacks, disputing facts like theres no tomorrow
hurry up and finish that last cup of sorrow

Specious allies fist each other in the final hunger games
Let me know whatever happened to dear Leeanne Rhymes
Buster was her flatmate if I recall
I read all about it in the sun, in the Sun filled up with my bladder gall
cab driver, cab calloway on the seizure medication
can you please drop me off at Waterloo station
remember theres a womble the one each for each of us
each one carrying a fetid hankyloload full of pus

to throw in each of our eyes, one at a time,
even whilst Rome burns, feels like acid on Leeanne Rhymes
Buster sticking to the side of your lip like day-old gum glue on the chubby flimsy skin packet
a womble couldn’t find more crap on wimbledon common with a tennis racket

Rob Lamb as a Lamb on the lam I can only say .. run..now…
Barney Rubble is dead, a fiery womble pecks at his seams
he lives in his dreams
how many lonely people ponder what it all means
out the back near the jar by the door with the sewing machine
Legally binding that contract is made of paper

50 or so breweries steam their goods on the coast route
purple haze frankly covers almost the whole district.

Gloating like a feedback loop, giving them back a favour like a sailor’s wheel
Grumpy as a witches brew punching above its weight in the grim reapers wrecking crew
stellar as a lamb on the lam with with a square case full of stolen ham
licking the fat like a cat with the cream only spilling out seed onto the feed-trainer’s all round muffler  cover

made out of a tin can and feeding the plumb bird like its ready to roost,
roosting with its bird-egg like guns on the roof
firing on all one cylinders like a pointing finger ambling fatewise
creaming off the best for last simply for hoops

green around the gills red as a beet
blue as blue can be
pink as a newborn cows teat
high as a kite blue as a nun
steaming like a freshly laid
pile of cow dung

its down pat like a steaming cowpat baking in the field
streaking across the field like you wouldn’t believe
streaky bacon passed through the sieve of disbelief
with a string of pearls which signifies loss to the family
on the lam
like general Steven Segal Hamm
Hammer horror every evening with the baseball bat
Nothing abates base battery like a a hen and chicken factory
Libelous licenciousness,  leave it back in the liquor cabinet

Chasing it like a chasseur chaser leaving on a jet plane
sweeter than a plate of treats oj blueberry sunday
i found my thrill there, i think you may too
lets go watch the submarine  racers and get stranded at the dive-in, what a to-do

That paper’s not worth the paper its written on
spilling out the back passage like Mitt romneys baby cat with mittens oN
she should be wearing kid gloves to protect that beauty
welcome to my nightmare take this ticket to your call of duty

its a fecal matter to be disposed of with care, oh yeah
like it or lump it it seedy and its always there
foaming or steaming, watery or bumpy
love it or leave it you can never save it for later
its done and dusted once it hits the drop-zone
the last mule standing is as sterile as the first
pointedly pointing our what is not the last may well be the first
spitting tacks, disputing facts like theres no tomorrow
hurry up and finish that last cup of sorrow

Specious allies fist each other in the final hunger games
Let me know whatever happened to dear Leeanne Rhymes
Buster was her flatmate if I recall
I read all about it in the sun, in the Sun filled up with my bladder gall

cab driver, cab calloway on the seizure medication
can you please drop me off at Waterloo station
remember theres a womble the one each for each of us
each one carrying a fetid hankyloload full of pus
to throw in each of our eyes, one at a time,
even whilst Rome burns, feels like acid on Leeanne Rhymes
Buster sticking to the side of your lip like day-old gum glue on the chubby flimsy skin packet
a womble couuldn’t find more crap on wimbledon common with a tennis racket
Barney Rubble is dead, a fiery womble pecks at his seams
he lives in his dreams
how many lonely people ponder what it all means
out the back near the jar by the door with the sewing machine
Legally binding that contract is made of paper
on the lam

Droopy drawers need some wiping once yer done
always whats with the heads-up on the green detail,
sensing weights like the setting sun
feeding the snail shell and all grunting like a pig on the lam with a side of lamb

to kill a mockingbird is no easy feat,
if you had big feet you could stomp on it from a great height
in the plain day of light, if you held your hand out maybe one would alight,
I doubt it though I don’t think you could stop it swirling in flight

spinning like a dervish-top, round and round like a mixer/blender
to slender to be a gender-bender
a huff aand a puff and the whole house of cards comes tumbling down
like a sandcastle built on feet of clay

its cold and windy outside who’ll your iglesias be bringing down when he comes into town
feelings like a feeling blistering through the windows of your mind
stealing stolen kisses like they were on open display
in the glassy cabinet they were placed in when you first stole them

a feeble paper bag full of coughed up sick blood and mucus
like a wind sock of creamning soda and i quote the accusers
a paper bag of old glory, welting with the stench of older glory
steaming like a milksop, thats the story morning glory

its still the same old story a case of do or die
indifference is always at the hem of your sleeve
spinning like a dervish-top
who are you going to believe?

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