Ant Smith

All poems

Walk the line

I'm writing a letter to Santa
To tell him my head doesn't work
When I'm asleep I dream about things
That haunt me and taunt me and hurt
I imagine a world taken over
By mutes wearing fine tailored suits
I want to ask a favour of Santa
Please send me some suitable pills

This morning I'm mailing e-Jesus
Got his address from the door of a stall
I'm pleading for a bit of his magic
Please turn all my shit into fish
So I can feed the ungrateful five thousand
Upon such sweet fine delicacies
And then with my Midas back passage
I'll be worshiped like god's only gift

And a text I would send to the godhead
If and only his number were listed
I know that he'd listen, if he existed
Cos that's what almighties will do
If I must live amongst all of these lizards
Please may I have an ark or a spark or
Something to make me quiet different
Then I'll survive on this line I must walk