Wolf rants- Wolf E. Boy's rhyming rhetoric

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The Manly Bower Braves

March 2003

Surfing all the daylight hours
Ripping up the Fairy Bower

April's upon us & southerly swells

Winter surf wizards out casting their spells

The offshores are blowing the froth off the waves

As cutbacks and barrels are chased by the braves

Bodyboard loonies surf Deadmans on days

When only the hardcore would come out to play

Image: The Fairy Bower break, Manly, Sydney

A Students Lot


I can't believe this work I've done

will come to no avail,

I've made me eyes bleed for a week

and look like I might fail.

All the shit I need to know

is locked inside my brain,

but I can't get it written down

I'll blow it yet again.

Essays are my nightmare,

now I've got a mental block,

with deadlines looming closer,

I just will not beat the clock.

I know the subject inside out,

it really makes me sick,

to struggle just to write it down,

I obviously am thick!


Well fuckin' 'ell I got it done,

and now the next one's just begun,

me brain's full up with media theory,

shot to bits and vision bleary.

Like a pinball bouncin' round

 the vacuum that's my head,

I cannot stop it ticking,

even when I go to bed.

It's just a bleedin' students lot,

I s'pose I shouldn't moan,

but like that really aint enough,

 they've just cut off me phone.




Tears and sweat of unknown legends
Buried by the tide
As on we look to stalwart henchmen
Coming to our side

Nations’ armies rose to dust, from
Might to ruination
Crumbled dreamlands can’t survive
Mans sickness


Old Billy

Old Billy the pot stoker,

he aint with us, but he is,

always smiling, eyes half glazed.

Glass bowls with brass fittings,

flexi-tubes and bubbles flitting.

Slowly pulling, eyes affix, then

finger off and rip the mix

The brightly shone volcanic flow, which

finished quick began quite slow

At first the cheeks drew thin and gaunt,

followed by that sudden jaunt

into the lung filled world of bong,

the eyes of pain though nothing's wrong

It's just the rush and comfy shoes,

how willingly we self abuse, then

when the smokes been held enough,

exhale, exhale that cloud of puff,

unless you've greened or whiting out,

wheezing, ill equipped to shout,

hurting though you cannot speak,

choking, clutching, feeling weak,

then pass it on, ignore the pain,

until it's back, your turn again,

watch THEM suffer, now you're grinning,

even though your head is spinning,

soon the next mull's in the cone,

Someone else’s turn to groan

Dead end story


You’re a loser and a liar

Wannabe that never was

You’re a kerbside blown out tyre

Never knew what’s now long lost

A contradicting hypocrite

Full of dreams and smiling faces

Wasted chances, full of shit

With a hand that’s full of aces

You’re a picture, film, and book

Never ending dead end story

Hating mostly how you look

See nowt but surrounding glory

Life is struggle, life is ease

Ahead’s a tale not yet been written

Wrestle, fight, give way, appease

Don’t be afraid that you’ll get bitten

Rich in memories and stories

Half of which just make you sick

Don’t regret or say you’re sorry

This is life, what makes us tick

Image: Me, under the Shoreham flyover bridge

The Clearer Sea
(A collaboration between Rob Skyfingers, Lloyd Williams, and Wolf E Boy, down at the Duke of Wellington one drunken night)


Tripping down the alcoholic highway
searching for direction
Misplaced time, forgotten names
A classic imperfection

A hazy search for peace and ease
Finding fate too hard to please
But every now and then we see
Through bleary eyes the clearer sea

And as our eyes then glaze and stare
The ocean moves and takes us there
Slipping down the coast, the coast
To the place that I love most

If I weren’t here, my mind set free
I hate to think where I might be
But where I’d be or where I go
Depend on luck for where is so

Along this land I stand so far
For somewhere out there comes the star

Looking to the core
For the answer that makes sense
It’s still cool to lie
So just leave it on the fence



It moves towards me
but isn’t there
makes me wary,- my own demons
I take them with me

Wish I didn’t

Integral sub divisions of self
Every second a different face
Who will I be next?
Not me, never me!
Do YOU know what the time is?
I know what it was
What it looked like

But where I go
All I see
Disappears, dissolves
This is sleep
It frightens me

Waking free, afresh
Who will I meet?
What must I be?
Another act
But never me


Image: nuff sed

5 Bloody 1

I’d been asleep

but now I’ve woken

deeds I’d feared would lay unspoken

Laid to rest

the deadly ghost

our nemesis we feared the most

We’d beat the Germans

on their soil

where Owen, Becks et al had toiled

One nil down from

Jancers sole

they’d like the clocks stopped at that goal

Owen fouled &

Beckham takes

Barmby, Owen, no mistakes

One all now &

blood is rising

confidence there’s no disguising

Surging runs

throughout the side

Germans fight to stem the tide

Bohme strikes

and Seaman saves

what price now we rule the waves

Seconds later up their end

Beckham’s fouled

now they defend

In he chips to Ferdinand

who nods it to his mate

Gerrard is this moments man

he shoots with perfect weight

A curling peach

from thirty yards

to see the first half out

happy times for

England fans

but not so for the krauts

The second half

was barely off

before we’d scored again

Beckham, Heskey, Owen shoots

it’s 3-1 to our men

Motson’ Brooking gushing praise

with thinly veiled pride

as English dreams unfold at last

against a German side

The beer we’d spilt

for Owens second

only just replaced

before he hit the hat trick goal

the Germans now lain waste

A Gerrard through ball set him up

& Owens just alight

Englands ‘goalden’ amulet scored

three this glory night

4-1 up against the Hun

and still the job was not yet done

Scholes to Beckham, back to Scholes

on to Heskey, bang -5 goals

I thought I’d died

and gone to heaven

“please god let them

knock in seven”


Why 2K

Millennium or Y2K, now where were you that sold out day,
the day the bugs were meant to come, like battle victors beating drums,
the slowly rising sound of fear, to make us dread the end of year,
and billions spent they said to free us from our own technology,
so some have made a tasty killing from the bug that had star billing
clever nerds fat bank accounts which swelled by frightening amounts
the paranoia they created left them nicely situated
in a world which doesn’t know of just what makes the techno flow,
so ain’t it time we all found out just what these bytes are all about,
or are we ready now to hand to systems we don’t understand,
the running of our institutions cutting human contributions,
‘til we give control away a little more each coming day
to logic driven data banks which draw no wage and ask no thanks,
and cyborgs with eternal life, designer babies for the wife,
that techno prophets say are things
the not too distant future brings.


April ‘96
Lies, M.P s and B.S.E

Day to day is hard enough
when struggling to survive,
without the added pressure
of the politicians lies,
which after he‘s been questioned on,
he backtracks and denies.

He tells you what it suits him,
like the safety of your meat,
yet experts who‘ve been testing
can‘t confirm it‘s safe to eat,
the only thing that‘s on his mind is
will this cock up cost his seat.

He‘ll lie again, deny his words
and say it wasn‘t so
he‘ll say he‘s been misquoted
by the lowest of the low.
He thinks we‘re all so stupid
that we really wouldn‘t know.

While we‘re all left to wonder
just what food to eat for best,
the politicians thinking of
how wisely to invest
the proceeds of directorships
that feather his own nest.

He votes on his own wages,
while pegging others back,
he keeps us to the guidelines,
but cuts himself some slack,
unless there‘s an election
he can‘t even get the sack.

Just the one ?

I don’t drink much, but I drink too much, cos it’s never just the one, I fire ‘em down until I’m done, and I can’t slow down, gettin’ lashed around the town, I’ll just drink it like a rocket til there’s nothing in me pocket, I should stay away from boozers cos they make me such a loser, vodka redbulls, vodka jelly, and the guinness for me belly, then I don’t half smoke, I wish I weren’t that sort of bloke, but I’m just a bleeding lacky to the alcohol and baccy. Birds? that’s a laugh, I get half cut and go all daft, slobber round like some drunk monkey, just an alcoholic junkee. But of course right at the time I’m quite convinced I’m in me prime, never lacking drunken nerve, just the class, and tact and verve. Well I guess that’s me, and the way I’m meant to be, one more drink and one more fag then wobble home without a shag, gentle zigzags down the street, can’t co-ordinate me feet, because the half time swagger’s now become a full on stagger, til I stumble through the door, get re-acquainted with the floor and wonder how it all begun,
I only went out for the one.


Move it

This one was written while staying at the D & D Inn on the Khao San road in Bangkok, Thailand in 2002. My room was right above a stall selling music and blaring out hip hop and rap til the beats seemed to start to affect the rhythm in my head as I was writing, so think rap when reading it!

Once again I let a situation roll on, without
Ideas just to push me or to move me along, within
An ever changing tide of people travelling through
I’ve just been blindly wandering in Banglampu

I wanna see some elephants and check out some tribes
But then my head starts to scream,
‘is this to what you subscribe?’
Is belief just a system that you hold in your mind
Or just a case of waiting ‘til you like what you find

But if you’re lazy like me, and never sure what you want
Only hoping for direction from some oracle font
Well then it could be a while if you wont open the gate
Best get used to waiting, putting trust into fate

So now for four hundred Baht
An air con bus to Chiang Mai
I’m heading north to the culture
Not a clue as to why


Hate u

What do you say to someone
that you thoroughly despise,
that you really cannot stomach any more,
a person so afraid of life that every sun-up dies,
and is plagued by self destructive mental wars.

A loner in a busy crowd
of friends that know too well,
that the answer only can come from within,
we have to live our own lives
and break free from our own shell,
and believe the way on isnt giving in.

This one though is gutless,
more afraid to fail than try,
while dispensing sound advice for others woes,
so the knowledge isn’t lacking
if the spirit is denied,
just the courage and belief that never rose.

The alcoholic backbone only
serves to make things worse,
and indignity gets heaped upon the fear,
then soon enough the standing joke
with efforts more perverse,
has become another life lived just through beer.

Knowing all the problems
doesn’t make the job less fraught,
there are loads of empty dickheads on the shelf,
but you never see the situation
where you have been brought,
to admit that empty dickhead
was yourself.


Dog Gone

Banglampu and the Khao San road, where
My phone got nicked by a cockney toad
I was playing pool when he starts his patter
Left my phone for a second,
didn’t think it’d matter

He’d gotten all chummy,
said let’s do Pat Pong
Though he couldn’t pay his bills
I never thought ‘what’s wrong?’

Then this old boy says,
‘ere son where’s your blower’
And me guts twist up as I’m feeling lower
I’d been doing quite well, right on top of me game
Then I find to my cost
Some scum’s doing the same

The cockney’s disappeared and the dog’s gone too
I try to look around but they’re out of view
It’s only day one and I’m a mobile down
My advice,
Keep your eyes peeled in this town


Depressive states

In and out, delerium
holds me in it’s grasp
from nose bleed highs
to chasm depths
quicker than a gasp

Alcohol escapism
which fuels the mental state
beware the dreaded aftermath
it sets upon your plate

Any little thing it seems
can set the wheels in motion
the snowball gathers pace, and mass
driven by a notion

Look around and all you see
are ball and chain restrictions
the mind plays games
then tears apart
your courage of convictions

It’s just a state of mind of course
thoughts within the head
sanctuary beckons only
after you are dead

The sea is life, wind is breath
they are truely free
amongst the pebbles and the ocean
lie no shackles there for me



I dedicate this scribe to anyone that's house shared with some thoughtless gits at some point in their lives.


Things you know get on my tits,
but you,- you just don't give a shit.
I've told you often, far too much,
but I don't think you give a fuck
about what others think or say
it's just your selfish thoughtless way
and you deny all blame or guilt
it's your own paranoia built
misguided view of you poor boy
that does not much than to annoy
this isn't you and you alone
you're one of four that share this home
consider those that share the roof
and think their friendship total proof
so just try not to take the piss
give others thought remember this
we' re not your servants or your maids
we'd rather not through your shit wade
consideration costs fuck all
and little things however small
that go to make a better place
and make the days less hard to face,
turn the lights off clean the floors,
wash the dishes shut the doors,
keep it quiet late at night and
stomping up the stairs aint right,
your mates are fine but they're your guests
and only you should clean their mess,
buy your share and pay your way
of things we all use every day,
toilet paper teabags too,
milk and sugar used by you,
washing liquid if you please,
none of this stuff grows on trees,
not the cheap shit either boy,
no tight arsed fuckin' skinflint ploy,
you know it well but now it's written,
keep in mind that you've been bitten,
if you stray far from these lines
I'll have to start imposing fines
and if I think this has no clout
you may well end up moving out
but if you think and toe the line
then everyone will get on fine.

Image: Flooded river in Henfield, West Sussex

Image: This effort was written for a college project, at the time Trainspotting was fresh in everyones minds. I had the idea that it should read like Ewan Macgregor's rendition of Love Life in the film,

On your bike Blair

Tories - Poll tax -unwanted- object and become a criminal-
Gov.t change name to council tax and carry on
Millenium Dome- unwanted- our money but no choice
Politicians blame its failure on the public
For not coming to see the eyesore they didn’t want in the first place
NHS- privatising against our wishes- but still no choice
More money poured in to admin than medical staff
Dirty hospitals, MRSA, waiting lists, imposed targets
Populism sound bite politics
Railways- privatised against our wishes,
& still no say or choice
Shareholders bailed out with OUR money,
Once again against our will & with no choice
Blair wedges his nose up Bushes arse-
Speaking for himself, not us-
Shoulder to shoulder with a prick who’s
intent on riding rough shod over ordinary
People to please his corporate backers
Both murdering War Criminals
Euro- come on Blair- put it to the people
For no better reason than to find out we
don’t appreciate being told it’s in our interest
By some self serving power freak
That’s so far up his own backside
That he now believes his litany of balls ups
Were ‘difficult choices that had to be made’
For the ‘uneducated masses’,
he seems to think we know no better,
Well we’ve seen ‘your choices’, ‘your’ balls ups,
‘our’ money sailing down the swanny
Along with the family jewels now disappearing
Over the horizon on the corporate ships,
Give us the vote, so we can say no,
Which bluntly translated,
Means you can GO,
And whoever follows,
And thinks they know better,
Better think twice
& study this letter


Andy.R 24-09-2K
Not my taste

I'd walk towards
the furnace flames, and
taunt them, "go on, call my name!",
I'd tread a little closer still,
to charge them, "come on!, test my will",
And see if I'd not rather die, than
live this earthly breathless lie, this
fire breathing state confusion, feeding
sheep their safe illusion, knelt
before this god the state, fed
rules and order from their plate, I'll
eat alone if that's alright, kept
free from all their


Andy. R 07-12-’96
My Eyes once saw the Glory

At the age of thirteen, excited and keen
I first saw the Albion play
In ‘76, and Ward was just starting
To blow all defences away

When Saturdays came and we were at home
crowds fit for the top division
We watched our heroes, ‘Spider & Ward’
Destroy nearly all opposition

remember the feeling, when ball hit the net,
I'd look for the ref, "Have we scored?"
When given, the hairs on my neck would stand up
as the whole of the Goldstone roared

We always believed, whenever at home
There was no side to whom we would lose
That Albion team could toy with opponents
And pick them off when they choose

Those days seem like dreams on a long distant cloud
Of times we knew only success,
Our spirit bled dry by a poacher from Blackburn
Who obviously couldn't care less.

His only concern for the Albion’s plight
Was the chance that he saw to get rich.
Tucked safely away with minders around,
but never near Albion’s pitch.

Bellotti, his lap dog, can't take a hint
He should know he's not wanted around
whenever he watches the Albion at home
He needs an escort out of the ground.
At the seasons end, whatever may come
One thing will be there for show.
Without the support of the fans for the Board
They must let the Albion go.

Goodbye Goldstone

The halcyon days are now disappeared
And we've heard the last of the Goldstone cheers

The ground sold from under the feet of the fans
No more the roar from the old North stand

That poacher has done us he sold off our ground
With control of the club bought for 56 pounds

He then tried to con us by changing the rules
To cop half the money but we were not fooled

The Goldstone was sold for about seven mill'
Knocked down and sold on for triple that bill

Funny that, with property
Worth more when it’s not there
And what a stunning value hike
Up triple in a year

They came and asset stripped our club
Not much but name is left
That scumbag perpetrated
Such a shameless, lowlife theft

He crept in through a window
His mate Bedson left unlocked
Knicked the Seagulls jewels
For his Focus empire stocks

Now we queue for tickets
But with crowds fit for reserves
Cornered in a shoebox
Now this aint what we deserve


The joke of it is
That the poacher’s still here
The fans with no say
Know that he's their worst fear

He'll wait in the wings ’til the fans pull us round
And make a huge profit from his 56 pounds

Image: Lunar Eclipse, Fistral Beach, Newquay, Cornwall

The ‘They’

Thoughts I have inside my head
Which make me feel such guilt
Tearing down the walls of life
The walls my mind has built

The world around just makes me think
What’s in my mind aint right
So live the day suppressing thoughts
Escape through sleep at night

Should I follow ‘their’ beliefs
The ‘They’ that we all follow
Live by ‘their’ restrained ideals
Or in my thoughts just wallow

Do we have to live this life, or
Have we got a choice, because
Created by the ‘They’, come soon
The ‘I’ wont have a voice




I wanna rage ‘n’ fight ‘n’ scream
I can’t believe this life is me
Without control complete despair
Some inner madness keeps me there

Within a labyrinth of choices
Hearing far too many voices

Feeling others hurt ‘n’ pain,
cry at films ‘n’ peoples stories
Like the hermit crab remain,
cowing from lifes greater glories

Dying just to throw the shell,
have open eyes and try new tastes,
‘n’ cast aside this mental hell,
or blink ‘n’ twenty years got wasted


Tell me why we fight each other
Basic equals, all with mothers

Different worlds with different rules
Psychologies from different schools

Fed by info full on stained
I sometimes feel like I’ve been brained

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