An original funny blog from gillie the Grimbarian; Not suitable for miserable folks. If you dont want laughter lines in your face like mine I advise you to keep away.
Dick the Prick.
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I once met a man named Dick, who performed an unusual trick,
he could vault over a wall; no matter how tall,
by simply using his prick.
Our parrot. Once we had a parrot, who wasn't very pleasant, he escaped from our window, and raped a passing pheasant. Harold's Wayside Drink. Twas a stormy winter night, the back end of the year, Harold came across a wayside Inn, and went in for a beer. The Landlady was a comely wench with overflowing boobs, The Landlord kept his cellar good and always cleaned his tubes. Harold had one drink and then another one; or two, the seat was comfortable, the company good, so he drank another few. The fire blazed in the grate, the welcome was also warm. Whilst outside the cold wind blew, and kicked up a mighty storm. Although Harold was a married man, he liked a pint of beer, he imagined he was a youth again, without family; or a care. He gave the buxom Landlady more attention than he should, the beer was talking for him, he was in a confident mood. The Landlord was a large man, but Harold didn't care, The ale was in, the w...
They fought on the land the sea in the air, they were maimed they died but none showed any fear. They fought for freedom; from rule by others. Allies from round the world; shoulder to shoulder as Brothers. A United Kingdom and United nations, They came to the UK and took up their stations. Then in no time at all after just a few years; Those brave men and women would have been brought to tears. Had they seen London demonstrations egged on by their BBC, Demonstrations to stop their sons grandchildren being free. But we won once again without so much pain, freedom we voted, free of their rule; If you want to stop Brexit, Then you are a fool
The Mad Poet Rupert was an aspiring poet, though the critics didn't want to know it. He began to rave and tear his hair out, his lips were formed in a permanent pout. He wasn't original. In time he was sectioned, he'd gone out of his mind, Well, he'd never been in it, I think you will find. He now sits in his cell dreaming up lots of verse Of silvery moons and a nocturnal hearse. frittering lights and a madman's curse. He was getting original. In time he was allowed to use sharp pens, so he wrote of ghostly shapes crossing fog shrouded fens. The critics read his work and now want to know it. Rupert's now famous; a celebrated Mad Poet. Now he's original. The Inn on The Moor. I came across a lonely Inn across a lonely Moor, The clientèle were weird as hell so I legged it for the door. I made it to the threshold, the air inside was cold. Mine host appeared in front of me, a pale skinny chap, upon his bony head he wore...
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