oh yea! let us go then you & me to a tavern & drink meade there mumble through a manuscript of runes & pull on heavy chain mail sharpen our swords (let the orcs come now for we are ready here in our makeshift campsite cloaks compulsory tales of yore yea of bravery (other words that sound like meade did ye drink the dregs of it already (fool! meet me on a barren hilltop for my daggers will want a word with you (an elvish word that may well be meade oh yea huddle closer to the pathetic little fire ye little people tried to make from peat & strange rubber (how that got here is anyone's guess my silhouette stalking the compulsory full moon & mist yea the usual atmospherics (beards see previous comment or shave with sword we'll tear chunks of mutton &/or venison we'll leave grease marks on platters & make strangely powerful masticating sounds with our rotting teeth oh ye pixie lights of fate shine down upon us here in a vengeful glade! & our boot buckles jingling as we stamp our feet eh frostbite takes another of our mounts we'll walk on blistered soles & recite bawdy hymns to battle & to our beards except yours oh little ones whose bum fluff insults the gods yea now prepare to face your final armour (geddon! yo lords of the ringtone! compulsory burning torches & the faint nauseous strains of mandolin music (we shall meet de burgh & live to tell others of his brilliance! now form a circle let's defend our little patch of slime & what is left of the meade & last night's feast but as for these pages of poetry well let's just skip them shall we? nothing more boring than poorly written verse (except bad meade drunken wizards treading on little people in the dark & elves whose airs of superiority make me wretch
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Bob Geldof, on the other hand, wrote as early as 1987 (or so) that by then, if he’d been feeling particularly grumpy on the bus or summat, he ‘could have told a million people to fuck off’. But he wasn’t quite sure.