Cambridge United poetry.

I have always been good at english and have rit some poetry describing United. Its too long to reproduce here, so i will precis it.

One poem waxes lyrical about that striker from Blackpool, i forget his name, hes always injured, its about having a very small face, and its wedged in reverse, between his massive buttocks, they stick out like rocky pillars, i should put it on canvas.

Another is about a performing flea wearing a Cambridge shirt.

Another is about socialist literature hanging from a wooden toilet roll, waiting to be used on piles hanging like grapes, a contemporary judgement on pain, suffering, with a black and amber angle, that this is how it feels to support united.

Latin is like cockney to me, i wrote in latin to camoflage the meaning, the meaning of suffering, betrayal, and i found it impossible to write Paddy Rayment in Latin, and that without me knowing, those konk haired blood suckin punks parted me from my brass for despair, tears, a footballing fart, vultures gouging at my eyes and winning, a pigs leg thrust into my regions, to have the boards filthy hands roaming my body, all around, searching for loose change.

And getting it. I, am crucified, not nice like, but bad, one nail in one wrist, and hanging from a tree branch.

Wearing a united shirt, singing Cambridge Cambridge ra ra ra, till my last breath.

Not now though.

I curse the pitch. The stands. Disaster is coming, for Latin is occult, it will bring doom. 666.