Deathreat Notes

2

Deathreat Man sent Mrs.Deathreat to the continent,
dud doves smuggled thru the Chunnel 
in her clungeal cavity, 
but even the Olympicwatchdog’s  
human snifferdogs wouldn’t conduct a narc 
nosedive into Mrs.Deathreat’s  
Annsummersnumber, 
coz the amount of drugs in the drugs 
the Deathreats deal is next to nil,
contrabland, all the scorer chorma 
minus the highness.  

Mrs. Deathreat 
was mule with a hole, she was
Muffin the Muff, but hug drugs up her clopper 
kept the pillheads of La Rochelle 
social clodhoppers who danced like Joecocker, 
so they sent
themselves to bed early outta pity 
for their own unhappening, nonfunspasming 
hips. They wanted to be eating 
their upperlips;
they were brownedoff that the grey 
gradegetter their mums 
had maximised with Omega3 hadn’t had its chips. 
They were in no danger of being Gallic 
Gatecrasherkids.
They wanted to be braiMDaMAged
Bezzes in berets on duracell drugs, 
balistically blissed enuff for 
Balearic drill ‘n’ bass drum ‘n’ gluegun
bhangraggagabba Gangsta Abba or the Triphopscotch,
but they were no buzzing 
sitting ducks
for whatever vibranium vinyl 
spun like Lindablair’s head, 
spun like anything Tonyblair eversaid, 
on decks that layer beats.

On the plusside, none of Mrs.Deathreat’s fleeced 
Frenchies would do a Leahbetts, 
but that would not console
the pillheads of La Rochelle, les herberts, 
still tediously on their cognitits 
unless the Angel Ravey L
- pushermanifestation of the patron saint of getting mashed - 
pharmathaumaturgically ticks 
some numinous shit 
for neurotransmission,
a miracle drug effective without ingestion, 
some Conceptio per Spiritum Sanctum 
as if Superhans handshandied from Abraham's bosom,  
when all the laws of biochemistry go Petetong.

But, alas, riboflavin and ibuprofen are harder and more 
happycore and would send 
cerebrum more signals of fly bo’ ravin’ 
than shonk Es Mrs.D squelchily 
dealt from out crotchless unmentionables.

Now, the technotarantist addicts d’Avignon,
les personnes adonnées à ‘aving one 
from Provencal Pontefract-on-the-Rhone 
(where Picasso pimps scrimp
coz Cubist hookers ain’t lookers), 
les avaleurs of mitzies and bishies
rather than le plonque (rouge ou blanc),
wou’nt ‘ave it if they weren’t ‘aving it 
in that wellaged wine of a town.
Vraiment, they’d be sent spare 
if Mrs.Deathreat dared diddle ’em there
with her fraudulent Franglais avowals that they’d
‘avoir it large, Pierre!’ 
There’d be stormin’ Bourbons in Avignon, yeah, 
if they couldn’t feel the electwitchity 
of DJ Saintvitus
because of some shite doves. Adamdroppers 
in Avignon know their discobiscuits 
from their biscodiscuits, comprende?
But the Pillheads of La Rochelle? Quelle pillocks!

XTC escroquerie of this 
Madame Des Merde Mollies 
sent shit shivers
of letdown lucidity 
thru the rolling cuddle puddle jungle 
drums which pure vexed the Cortez Bruvas,
Senors Beeg amongst the local thizz biz fixers. 
As young fluff she'd boasted more 
overzealous sweaty inspectors than Ofsted,
but now Mrs Deathreat's hairy goblet 
would be of sweet Fannyadams interest
to the syndicate 
if only her fanny adams had hit  
Gallic gurning sweetspots. 
Fact her serpent socket 
was no Aladdin’s cave of Hacienda Hedex, 
more an Anadin Cove of dummy drugs,
had dem Cortez muthas jumpy thugs.
Traffikers of Lover’s Speed in hock 
to the Sam 
Madrid mob, they expressed
narcommercial concerns that mock mookers
to naffall cut, served from 
a thrushenflamed Damianduff, could senda fad 
for temperance thruout chemiculture of a continent,
all the bluerooms and dancetents of Europa 
being once burnt, twice straight.
(Gallic gurners turning respectable taxpaying pissheads, 
staying in caining an unprohibited carafe or eight, 
pickling themselves to preserve the State.) 

But before suspicion re the serotonocidal 
supplyline snowballed, before the Cortezes 
even departed their chilloutroom to 
put les frighteneurs on her and her tangy
baggie of humbug Harryhills, of whack weekenders 
up her suspenders and past her pudenders, 
Deathreat's missus was already on the 
homewardbound Eurostar. Luckily for her, 
her thug life hubsy was a disastrous 
domestic selffender, 
better at deathreatening than dishwashening, 
he'd sent a guava  to the vet's 
and put her Pomeranian in the blender,
tho' pertainian to value of life he's vilipender,
thus to aforementioned animedic prolly not 
after all a Snoopy smoothie sender,
unless off the invoice for the guava's jabs
it might scare up a nice little subtrahender.