Hanger's Tree

Say the words,  
spew the verse,
drinking too much
is my funking curse.
Stumbling doors and weeping walls
funking screams
too much for fools.
Cut me down
from hanger's tree
spin my hands and rape me.
I'm mad enough to pop the cock,
pull the trigger,
watch you drop.
Like the cock
outside my window
that croaked at four in the morning from a stone
thrown.  
Shouldn't annoy a drinker
on a hangover
or someone on a mid-morning high
with a stoner aggressive side.
Stroke my back
and watch it bleed
feed the bullship 
with your toes
and those
things you said to me
late in Spring
mean nothing now.
You poured petrol on my flaming flesh
too much pressure
for a budding actress
or singer
on the sinner
with the thinner
tablets and thinnest vodka.
Let me lick you,
base to tip,
watch it drip.
Now that's cliche.
Over and out
my gangster freaks.
Tonight's the night for all the geeks
to seek the G's and go to wine,
or war
on coffee, pills and ash-rats.
We're singing like three strangled cats,
out for blood and 
o'er the flood,
selling the dud
on ebay for a dollar or two.
I'm through.
This says nothing
or everything
about you.
Pull me down from the hanger's tree,
spin on my hands and rape me.