She stormed through the back entrance door
of ‘The Scapegoat Arms’
with a left fist full of dripping dogshit
which she’d just scraped up from the cobbles outside.
Ignoring the cries from The Bar,
she headed determinedly into The Lounge
at the far end of the hallway.
Spying a gaggle of tarted-up girls
clucking like right munters near the jukebox.
She tunnel-visioned for the heavy one
with a half-healed black eye and crooked, broken nose.
Grabbing a-hold of her lacquered hair,
she twisted and pulled downwards,
slapping the hand full of shit
into her wide screaming mouth
and rubbing it up nostrils and into the eyeballs.
Whilst yelling through gritted teeth
with bone-cracking fury and intensity
“You tell that bloody slag-sister of yours
that when the ‘Little Rat’ finally comes out of hiding
I will be waiting to cowing skin her alive.
I’ll pound her face into sodding muck,
bugger her with her own leg-bone,
set fire to her stinking snatch
whilst pissing on her ‘Good For Nothing’ brains.
I’ll murder her, so help me God, I swear it!
Nobody polishes my Tyrone’s knob… except Me!”
(Soothing advice given at the bar 3 minutes later, whilst restrained and awaiting the Heddlu. “There, there, love… you should take it as a compliment, that your husband’s ‘Cute Enough’ for women to gamble crossing your notorious temper for. Christ knows, he could ‘Bang-Me’ all night long, like the flat of a shovel on a battered old fence post… and I am absolutely terrified of you!)