“This is from "Marabou Stork Nightmares".Bernard's Poem:Did you see her on the telly the other daygood family entertainment the tabloids sayBut when you're backstageat your new faeces auditionyou hear the same old shite of your own selfish volitionShe was never a singera comic or a dancerI cant say I was sadwhen I found out she had cancerGreat Britain's earthy northerncomedy queentakes the rand, understandfrom the racist Boer regimeSo now her cells are fuckedand thats just tough tittyI remember her actthat I caught back in Sun CityShe went on and on about'them from the treeswith different skull shapesfrom the likes of you and me'Her Neo-Nazi spellit left me fucking numbthe Boers lapped it up with zealso did the British ex-pat scumBut what goes roundcomes round they sayso welcome to another doseof chemotherapyAnd for my partit's time to be upfrontso fuck off and dieyou carcinogenic cunt.”

“The Victim was a chronic fuck-up. People Like her always seemed to hang out with The Poisonous Cunt. In turn, she kept their self-esteem low and made sure that they stayed in psychic immiseration. She was a curator of dead souls.”

“You fucking knew that fucking cunt would fuck some cunt.”

“The fact that you use the term "cunt" in the same breath as "sexist", shows that you display the same muddled, fucked-up thinking oan this issue as you do oan everything else.”

“Choose a life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television. Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers... Choose DSY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit crushing game shows, stucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away in the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourself, choose your future. Choose life... But why would I want to do a thing like that?”

“Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suit on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourselves. Choose your future. Choose life… But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin’ else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin?”

“People think it's all about misery and desperation and death and all that shite, which is not to be ignored, but what they forget is the pleasure of it. Otherwise we wouldn't do it. After all, we're not fucking stupid. At least, we're not that fucking stupid.”