So a book of poetry, small in size, has won the Costa's booker prize.
There's no plot: no porn, bums nor titties - just pretty little rhyming ditties.
It's not exactly War and Peace but they claim it's still a masterpiece.
But, I don't care for this literary affliction, for poetry's not my choice addiction.
And, although it's just a book of clever prose it won't be allowed in my F**kin House.
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