Surging out of Convalescence

Darts in soap operas, oh, so wrong, oh so wrong
No-one’s scoring and there’s too much chat between each throw
Worse than this though is when cheers are raised for the bull
Granted, bull’s a double and an out, but I know that they don’t
Know, therefore
I propose
No soap darts

Is your child hyperactive, or is he perhaps a twat?
Sometimes I like to watch wave rage down on Fistral Beach
Last Ash Wednesday I had tantric sex and it was shit
Next Ash Wednesday I might strive to lick my elbow
Strive in vain
For they say
Few succeed

I wrote to the Horse & Hounds
To gloat over what I’d done
I stored their magazine in a data retrieval system
Well let’s face it, what’re they going to do?
It’s not as if they know where I live
And anyway I cut the caper back in 1984
Heartbroken matrons
On joyless beds
For those whose souls the iron has entered
And if I get to heaven’s gate
I’ll doubtless have to wait
While St Peter investigates the inevitable asterisk
The inside of a Halex Three-Star table-tennis ball
Smells much like you’d expect it to