Down at the Queen Vic, a Friday night,
Angie had enough of this loud mouthed lout,
and his ***-out-of-mind BBC billigerence;
So her repartee needed to be, incisive, swift:
'I'll tell you what I'm looking at, a brainless,
boring, inarticulate piece of Albert zhit.'
He slurred a reply sounding something like
'Yar lookin' for a punshup arsshole? '
Angie's sardonic reply, 'I don't fight mentally fragile
cretins - you *** hithole, goaway! '
Gathering himself to a swaying target
he lurched at her arms flailing -
cameras playin'
'I'll do yar, yar barshtard tit.
'crement zhit,that you fit.'
Instinctively Angie side-stepped and kicked
the jerk up the rear, propelling him through
the swinging doors, knocking over Dottie's beer.
The last she saw of him - he was propped
by a lampost mumbling, 'barshtard took
me on cos I were pished - I'll do'erlikeacockney
dinnaneshitime.'
'Sorry Den, there won't be a neshtime, you ***
piece of stinking rough
so bloody well eff off, you effin' puff.'