Can’t sleep again, o dear.  Panic Shack get on my tits

Christmas carols just after Summer Solstice play on flugel sweetly

Kreator echoes round the room with a chorus of death

John Keats poems are instantly forgettable, perhaps i am just too dull

Smoke hasn’t coated my lungs with filth for ages now, it is good

Clwb y bont still hasn’t recovered from the flood

Been hampered by the deadly virus, doubt even Bones could beat this one

Some say it is not real, I have an opinion on that says Ally McBeal

Maybe not, as she is fiction.

I want a stick says Rafferty with perfect diction

Well in cat language anyway.

I wonder why people pray

God hates us all (Slayer)