Grandpa Hammersmith’s Review

I asked the grandkids to buy me
The Best of The Andrews Sisters
for Christmas.
They exposed me to a punk rock band instead.
Royal Headache they’re called,
and that they are.
I’ve heard more tuneful sulphur crested cockatoos.
Their lead screecher’s
ghastly, ghostly pale, chest
is as unimpressive as his vocals.
Put a shirt on pin dick!
A horde of demonically possessed jackhammers
sounds more musical than these jackasses.
Please make it stop,
are the final words of their latest single.
I concur.
Royal Headache’s vocalist occasionally opts
for a more mellow sound
than a tasered banshee,
but he soon reverts to imitating a bear
with its balls jammed in a blunt guillotine.
He dances like an octopus
being flailed by a tornado
and that’s being kind.
Writing this review isn’t as traumatic
as witnessing a Royal Headache performance,
but neither is yanking your brain through your nostrils,
with a pair of pliers.

3 thoughts on “Grandpa Hammersmith’s Review

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.