A coach load of yobs
From Nottinghamshire
Descended on Wood Green
To drink loads of beer
And watch the footie
As their team played away
Which would have been fine
If they knew how to behave
But as I waited for my breakfast
In the local Spoons
One such yob
Started acting like a buffoon
Calling me out
Over two fried eggs
Asking searching questions
Then proving to be one of society’s dregs
As he rained down judgement
On my humble self
For being an actor
And ‘stinking of wealth’
As he so presumed
Wrongly, of course
Totally p**sing me off such that
I wish he’d stayed up north
Or in The Midlands
Whence he came
The self-righteous little t**t
Out for a footie game!
Who’d been on the sauce
Since eight thirty A.M.
And clearly thought he was hard
In front of all his mates
Turning on a woman
Eating on her own
Whom he didn’t know from Adam
Please just go the f**k home!
You don’t belong here
You provincial, backward twerp!
I’d really like to punch you
Not listen to you rant and burp!
Like you’re some authority
On what constitutes success
Living with your Mam and Dad
Travelling on The National Express
I hope you enjoy
The footie match
I hope you go home in tears
When your team get thrashed
And never come back
To these southern parts
As you clearly hate Londoners
And have your head up your arse
Assuming that all
Inhabitants of The Smoke
Are rich and obnoxious
What a blinkered joke!
If you don’t like this turf
Naff off with your rucksack
We don’t need oiks here like you
You jumped up pikey prat.
Rachel Rhodes 