Gerard Manley Hopkins' "Pied Beauty" as written by Andrew Kevin Walker.
Glory be to God for cancerous things -
For tumours of mottled purple as a rotting cow;
For murder, rape, war, famine, kids killing kids, the baby who can't swim;
Elm disease-ridden chestnut tree falls; tearing off finches' wings;
Landscape gutted and raped--tear, burrow, and plough;
And hollow eyed people, their melanomas malignant, their hope dim.
Genocide in the name of religion, how strange;
Whatever is good, is swiftly destroyed (who knows how?)
With life, death; love, death; laughter, faces grim;
God brings forth children beset with disease and mange:
Fuck him.
We had to learn some of Hopkins' "poems" at school. He is one of the most awful, serial abusers of the English language I have ever encountered. Never content simply to use the word "nice", he has to say things like "dappled, joy-speckled honey blossom" and crap like that. This has been a long time coming - if you're watching me, Manley, from Heaven, your poems are shit. Nobody likes you. Note: I've kept the rhyming structure intact, otherwise it would have deviated too far from the original and become just a poorly written stream of bad language (like most of my other nodes).
The Exorcist, as written by Roger Hargreaves (author of the Mr Men books).
"Stop shaking that bed at once!" said Mrs MacNeil.
"I won't!" said Little Miss Possessed. "I won't and I shan't!"
"Oh bother," said Mrs MacNeil. "I suppose now I shall have to call Mr Exorcist."
Mr Exorcist arrived, and was astonished to see how bad Little Miss Possessed had got. Extraordinarily bad!
"Now then," said Mr Exorcist. "Let's stop all this nonsense, shall we?"
"Your mother sucks cocks in hell!" retorted Little Miss Possessed, before vomiting in Mr Exorcist's face.
She was a very, very possessed little girl.
Fight Club, as written by PG Wodehouse.
I'd been feeling a bit out of sorts lately, but I was dashed if the doctors could find a thing wrong with me. Just get yourself outside of some food and have a good night's sleep, they'd say. All very well and good, but if a chap can't sleep, that's no help, is it?
I sighed.
"You know what you need," said Tyler, kind of manifesting himself.
"No, what's that?"
"You need to give me a good sharp blow to the ear, that's what."
"I say! Are you absolutely off your rocker?"
"Very probably," Tyler replied. "Now come on, be a good fellow, and nobble me one. Be quick about it, I've got bun cricket with Tuppy at the club in half an hour."
Much later, I sat in the chair on the top floor of the Dorchester with Tyler pointing a pistol at me. He pulled back the hammer, and I remember thinking "Not even Jeeves could get me out of this one..."