And you’ve got her legs up against the mantlepiece…
Out!
I’m taking this lot in in the name of Her Gracious Majesty Queen Elizabeth.
Immanuel Kant was a real pissant who was very rarely stable
Immanuel Kant was a real pissant Who was very rarely stable. Heidegger, Heidegger was a boozy beggar Who could think you under the table.David Hume could out-consumeWilhelm Freidrich Hegel,And Wittgenstein was a beery swineWho was just as schloshed as Schlegel.
There’s nothing Nietzsche couldn’t teach ya ‘bout the raisin’ of the wrist
Socrates himself was permanently pissed
And John Stuart Mill, of his own free will, on a half a pint of shandy was particularly ill
Plato, they say, could stick it away - half a pint of whiskey, every day
Aristotle, Aristotle was a bugger for the bottle
Hobbes was fond of his dram
And Rene Descartes was a drunken fart: “I drink, therefore I am!”
Yes, Socrates himself is particularly missed…
a lovely little thinker but a bugger when he’s pissed.
Hegel is arguing that the reality is merely an a priori adjunct of non-naturalistic ethics, Kant via the categorical imperative is holding that ontologically it exists only in the imagination, and Marx is claiming it was offside.
[singing] When danger reared its ugly head, he bravely turned his tail and fled.
Theatrical managers in this area have not been slow to appreciate the sea’s tremendous dramatic value. And somewhere, out in this bay, is the first underwater production of Measure for Measure.
Isn’t it awfully nice to have a penis.
Isn’t it frightfully good to have a dong.
It’s swell to have a stiffy,It’s divine to own a dick.
From the tiniest little tadger,To the world’s biggest prick.
So three cheers for your willy or John Thomas
Hooray for your one-eyed trouser snake.
Your piece-of-pork,Your wife’s best friend,Your Percy or your cock.
You can wrap it up in ribbons,You can slip it in your sock.
But don’t take it out in public Or they will stick you in the dock,And you won’t come back.
Oh, yes, of course. I thought you meant him. Y’know, it seemed a bit daft, me havin’ to guard him when he’s a guard.
I blow my nose at you, so-called “Arthur King,” you and all your silly English K-nig-hts.
The fat one balances the two skinny ones.
Better get a bucket. I’m gonna throw up.
I’d like to welcome the pommy bastard to God’s own earth, and I’d like to remind him that we don’t like stuck-up sticky-beaks here.
Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Chief Constable There’samanbehindyou.
Beethoven’s gone, but his music lives on,
And Mozart don’t go shopping no more.
You’ll never meet Liszt or Brahms again,
And Elgar doesn’t answer the door.
Schubert and Chopin used to chuckle and laugh,
Whilst composing a long symphony,
But one hundred and fifty years later,
There’s very little of them left to see.
They’re decomposing composers.
There’s nothing much anyone can do.
You can still hear Beethoven,
But Beethoven cannot hear you.
Of course I can talk, I’m the Minister for Overseas Development.
Your Majesty is like a stream of bat’s piss.
Regards,
Shodan
I must warn you, sir, that outside I have police dog Josephine, who is not only armed and trained to sniff out certain substances but is also a junkie.