War Spooky

Stevie, you ledge. Seriously mate, get your head out of the tub of Brown Ale or whatever it is you lot up there take your baths in, and stand up straight and show me your cock. Yes, you heard me right.

Show me what you got.

No? Ok, let me show you what I've got. Its fucking big, mind. Maybe not as big as this red Manc I know and this scouse git who always walks down the street with it hanging over his shoulder, but mine is still big. Actually, I suppose it isn't compared to that Manc and that scouse git. Or the pikey who lives in the caravan at the end of my road. But I tell you this 'mate', it's bigger than whatever you've got in your pants. And I know this because I asked around and you ain't pulled since 1955. I mean fuck me, that's fucking ages to go without. Must send a man loopy. And blind. Doesn't count if you're constantly playing with yourself. You do know that, don't you? It doesn't count.

And I aint going to accept any of those European bints you got hold of, cause squeezing a tit don't count either. At least I've dipped my end in some choice skirt, home and abroad, since you last tasted some. I don't go without see. Even when I'm not top of my game, I still manage a clever chat up line at the last moment, to help save the day.

So you know what. Let's just leave it. Don't bother getting your small shrivelled cock out. You'll only make the Boro fan standing next to you look hung like a donkey.