My name is Fenella fucking Collins-Smith.

Who the fuck are you?

Spieling me lies ’till my eyes

Turn blue from the chipped paint on your ceiling.

My neck’s craning, I’m reeling,

From your empty, worthless rhetoric.

How are you not choking from your words

You insignificant toothpick.

 

You wear designer labels like a 14 year old girl,

Curling out meaningless bullshit

Of your celebrity fables

And high echelon society.

Well the only thing echelon about you

Is your jumped up sense of propriety.

Me? I’m fucking deity,

Fighting the good fight and still you lie to me?

 

That finally I’ll get paid,

‘Oh I’m sorry darling my funds are waylaid,

I’ve been licking too many arsecracks

And I’m too important to pay back tax’

To the people, who make your rich cunt

Friend’s think they’re treacle.

 

Well do you know what? I’m sick of it.

I choose to be down in the gutter

In the thick of it.

Not hiding behind skirts of cowardice,

 

So sit on this with your fat arse:

Your life is a farce.

And normally I wouldn’t bat an eyelid

Over monotonous monied pricks like you

But you owe me FOUR MONTHS WAGES

that I worked fucking hard for and you’re

Causing me katzenjammer, I wana put a nail

In your head with a hammer so

 

Bitch better get my fucking money

Or i’ll shame your name ’till your rich

Friends stop replying to your whatsapp chats.

 

What is this not funny?

I saw you on first dates mate, and that

Was fucking hilarious.

Watching you tell the world you’re a successful businessman

But really you’re just a wet, wilted useless deadbeat no personality piece of lettuce.

My name is Fenella Collins-Smith.

Pay me my fucking money.

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