Oh yeah, we are 15 weeks at number 1 here on the Blown By Podcast because of your gentle

actions of liking and subscribing to the podcast and leaving pleasurable favourable reviews.

Thank you so much.

To celebrate our 15 weeks at number 1, I have written a poem that I'd like to read

out to begin the podcast.

This poem is called Geoffrey Arters Fowr Fetched Carapag.

Pregnant Declan drinks his gin from the stinking King's flap.

He plays a wally trumpet for some Jewish men in drag.

There's a bandy-legged chandelier dripping crystals on the floor and a dandy beggar would

point the ears fists a princess through a door.

It's 10 miles long and 3 hours tall, it's not right or wrong or big or small.

The cows are made of razor blades, their winch is dollars' priests, the petru smells like

takeaways and the tires are stacked in the east.

It's as frisky as an alleyway, as angry as a hammer.

The tires will ask you questions and the gable end has manners.

Go there when you're lonely, when you think you've had enough.

When your mouth is dry from sniffing spangards dandruff off your cuff, I go there in the

evenings to think about the day.

Geoffrey Arters Fowr Fetched Carapag is where I want to stay.

A heaven full of dinosaurs awaits you at the entrance.

Eleven sexy minotors adorned their chests with heavy pendants.

Slide down the dreamer's drain pipe into the Turkish puzzle.

...