sete sete sete
fuck off
have a biscuit
you can shove it up your arse

i am travelled across the sands
to sit on hill above the ville
watching fishing boats go out
to fetch some fish
and kill them expertly

chop off their heads
bunch of queens, fishermen

and pull out a blade
to drag across the baking skin
that turns olive now
this is the life,
we're living
and the sun kicks hard
on sete by the sea
as the fat tourists come
to bloat and belch on oysters
and shrimps
and expensive hotel rooms
where no woman waits for me

i'd like a hooker here
you hear,
to play upon the blade
and run her fingers through this hair
as greater cuts are made
but fuck it,
under bright blue sky
the seagulls keep me close
swooping in for sandwiches
but all i have is smoke
and alcohol, that tired old trick
a poet in a raincoat exposing his withered prick
but it aint me, nature, it's just the fashion
we must all die in flames of burning passion
or like fish in the quay, at the hand of
a transvestite,
who will rear up his arm and slam down his knife
expertly,
in the southern sun,
where nature and fisherman get their easy killing done.