(Prompted by yesterday's flight home from Malaga)

 

Flying home from Sicily

I found myself booked in Seat B

You've guessed – the middle one of three

Between The Two Fat Slags;

 

Once seated I could quickly tell

Their scent was not Coco Chanel

But rather a more acrid smell

Of armpits, beer and fags.

 

It seemed from how these girls would speak

They'd been away for just a week

But both agreed their stay'd been bleak

They'd only had twelve shags;

 

At six a-piece which one had won?

“It's quality, not just the sum”

Said Di who'd had one up the bum

Which gave her rights to brag.

 

But judging their morality

Is certainly not up to me

So when I went to take a pee

Both snaggle-toothed old hags

Joined me in the pint-sized loo

Where I enjoyed their well-used flues

To make it seven that each screwed;

God bless The Two Fat Slags.