Fuckin ken, ye ken, ye fuck

A Mash-Up on the Death of HM Queen Elizabeth by Engtlish Poet Laureate Andrew Motion and Scottish Poet Laureate Irvine Welsh. 

1.
Think o' yon failin body noo
awake well past closin time althoo
the piss and lager o' London life,
the pigeons, chips, live bed shows,
are no what Her Fuckin Majesty knows,
held in a trance o' top quality gear
afore that wears oot, then
goodnight dear.
Like Iggy Pop
you are set free
frae fuckin shite,
and history.

2.
In swirl o' pukerush
(tinned fuckin salmon,
I fuckin knew it),
nae fuckin clue
aboot any fuckin thing
just a golden
beck, or fuckin brook,
o' piss,
ah fuck, ma troosers.
Lid o' the toilet
was fuckin doon.
Shadows, faces, lines,
splinterin fuckin noise.
I've accidentally kicked in
the panellin
roond the bath.

3.
Think o' the flower-lit coffin
on telly,
headfucked in vaulted public bar,
on speed,
so we who never knew ye, but
all half-suspect we knew ye,
wait,
delve inside our fuckin heads,
and find
ye on a horse, in a scarf,
wearin snooker player's specs.
 The fuckin bangin
 in our mind
which says we're fuckin doin time
that simply as a fuckin fact
could fuckin only
fuckin end, man
as our lives turn
frae can tae fuckin can.

4.
Towards the end o' the season
Sky Sports subscribers
ne'er buy a roond.
Fat fucks
clueless
o' what it fuckin means,
in fuckin Levis with
the fuckin posh breezers
aye, and what's it to ye?
Ye fuckin cunt ye.
Nae fitba on?
Who's had ma jellies?