Pete Doherty is poop.
He's a grating, flaking, chafing, stain of cum piss pushing his way through the arse side of the pants that shield society's dicks and assholes.
His music sounds like the grotesque caterwaul of a cauldron of boiling apes.
His hair looks like a regurgitated breakfast of day-old coffee grounds and rope.
His face simpers like ours might had primates evolved into Mongoloids who learned how to snarl and smoke cigarettes.
His sentences pillow fight each other for the crown of most puerile.
This modern troubadour, as he is billed, eats away a little piece of my crotch every time he vomits a lyric. I only hope he lives a long, fruitless life in Cell Block D getting raped through the holes in his arms by murderers and tax evaders, alike, because the moment the drugs liberate us from him, though we will have won the drug war, the victory will be Pyrrhic. We need no more rock martyrs, least of all this
dickshit.
Fuck forever? Fuck you, Pete Doherty. You're a big steaming pile.
