Renegade

At least I'm not a RIGHT CUNT

Riders Club ?

Christmas poem (adult). Christmas is coming, the goose is full of fat, soon be time for santa, the fucking bearded twat. He'll be coming down the chimney, with chinese toys of cack, he nearly got wedged up there, thanks to his bulging fucking sack. He likes to have a snack or two, and then a drink or three. He's had a fair bit earlier and is busting for a pee. Next, he'll nick your festive grub and chow down on your kippers then shite one in your flower tub, and piss in both your slippers. The dirty smelly wanker ain't had a wash in weeks. It's worse than body odour, the stinky bastard reeks! He's mixed the beer with lemonade, and drunk six pints of shandy, had seven shots of whiskey and half a pint of brandy. He's lurched around the living room, and crashed into the sofa, fell over on a dog chew and knocked the tree clean over. So whilst our drunken santa is behaving like a prawn, his dirty fucking reindeer are all shagging on the lawn. So now he's had his fill of booze, he's ready to depart. And nearly wakes the whole house up with a fucking thunderous fart. He's picked his nose, he's scratched his arse, and then he's touched your food. The dirty unwashed bastard really is so fucking rude. Thank god he's gone outside now, and got into his sleigh. At last the foul old tosser has finally gone away. That's it for another year. And thank fuck for that. It's time to brick the chimney up that will sort the twat!