Richard Grantham

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Psalm 51, Miserere mei

1
Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy lovingkindness: according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions.

2
Wash me throughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin.

3
For I acknowledge my transgressions: and my sin is ever before me.

4
Against thee, thee only, have I sinned, and done this evil in thy sight: that thou mightest be justified when thou speakest, and be clear when thou judgest.

5
Behold, I was shapen in iniquity; and in sin did my mother conceive me.

6
Behold, thou desirest truth in the inward parts: and in the hidden part thou shalt make me to know wisdom.

7
Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean: wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.

8
Make me to hear joy and gladness; that the bones which thou hast broken may rejoice.

9
Hide thy face from my sins, and blot out all mine iniquities.

10
Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.

11
Cast me not away from thy presence; and take not thy holy spirit from me.

12
Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation; and uphold me with thy free spirit.

13
Then will I teach transgressors thy ways; and sinners shall be converted unto thee.

14
Deliver me from bloodguiltiness, O God, thou God of my salvation: and my tongue shall sing aloud of thy righteousness.

15
O Lord, open thou my lips; and my mouth shall shew forth thy praise.

16
For thou desirest not sacrifice; else would I give it: thou delightest not in burnt offering.

17
The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: a broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise.

18
Do good in thy good pleasure unto Zion: build thou the walls of Jerusalem.

19
Then shalt thou be pleased with the sacrifices of righteousness, with burnt offering and whole burnt offering: then shall they offer bullocks upon thine altar.

1
Are you there, God? It's me, David.

2
I did a terrible thing, Lord, and I'm most ashamed.

3
Oh boy, I'm contrite.

4
Jesus Christ I'm sorry! I'm even going for the whole sack-cloth-and-ashes bit.

5
Mind you, I'm not totally clear on just what it is I'm supposed to have done. But the prophet Nathan told me I'd offended you or something, and he's usually quite right about this sort of thing.

6
Though all I did was to spy this pretty chick in her bath, seduce her, impregnate her, then arrange this nifty military manoeuvre which got her gormless jerk of a husband killed off. Come now, surely most people would do the same!

7
It can't be the added wife thing. Hell, look at Solomon - THREE HUNDRED of them, PLUS seven hundred damn concubines! Quite the Don Juan.

8
And no, I don't think I can be accused of adultery - it's not as if Bathsheba was married for very long, hey now?

9
Murder? Nonsense, nonsense! It was some sodding Hezbollah guys who killed that dense ninny Uriah, not nasty old me! Sheesh!

10
So I felt perfectly fine with all this - but not Nathan. No, the senile old fart came up to me and then started ranting some nonsense about... a sheep, I think... well, whatever it was, it appears this sinner's done something incredibly naughty. As a result of which my son by her is going to snuff it.

11
Quite a bummer, hey! Still, we can just make more children - this part's rather fun, y'know. (Though sort of messy.)

12
Anyway, Miserere mei and all that (or however that fucking psalm goes, I forget for now). I'm here grovelling in the fetid dirt, hoping Your Serene Highness isn't too pissed off with me. 'Cos that'd be really annoying.

13
You still there, God? I'm hoping you heard all this, because I'm just off to shaft the horny bint now and this time I want to do it with a clear conscience.

14
See you tomorrow night then. Love, Dave.

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An excerpt from Blowin' in the Wind by Bob Dylan.

How many roads must a man walk down before you call him a man?
How many seas must a white dove sail before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes and how many times must the cannon balls fly before they're forever banned?

The answer, my friend, is... ten. Maybe eleven. Honest.
What, seems too damn small? Or do you maybe wanna have a naff, touchy-feely sham answer, "man"? "Blowin' in the wind" or some pure sadarse lefty bollocks? Hah!
Dumbass.

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Roses are red,
Violets are blue;

Beavers? I'd leer -
Arses rule, too!

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Shakespeare's 130th sonnet.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound:
I grant I never saw a goddess go, -
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
   And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
   As any she belied with false compare.

Here, Shakespeare's inner message is that men can adore women though they're flawed. His own's no siren, it must seem: rather weak eyes, drab mouth, dirt-caked norgs, permanent bad hair day, greenish face, voice like The Nanny's, and super-halitosis that'd take the sheen off her mirror. Probably her arse-end is massive as well, and she farts lots. So here I need to ask: What the FUCK was Will thinking?! Why lure and roger THIS sad wreck? She's a mere swine! I advise him to see to some new, randy babes before the syphilis this rude, revolting whore has surely given him rots his merry member!

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Updated: May 10, 2016


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