A timeless piece of adolescent dross gets the harpoon from 'a real writer'. Who is over 12.
Part 1. As boredom descends upon all satirists reading this after only one second, a young - not ancient - boy makes his way homewards to home, and dances gaily (not ye olde correct spellingk gayleye) amongst the puddles of sewerage that have somehow escaped the Victorian sewerage system to land on the road.
'Tum tee tum tee tum tee tee, I'm a wanker who can't write, can't you see?', sings a wanker who can't write, and then noticeth he do be do be do standing besoid the legendary Shit Factory of Adolescent Hangups.
'Well I never, Oi don't know me cockney from me West C'ntry, to be sure', he said in a garbled attempt at a UK accent, though sounding like a four be from the land of the English cannon fodder, aka the US of Holes, 'now that Mom's not here maybe Oi can drop this ridiculous accent and - hehe - use dirty words!'
And there followed paragraph after paragraph of adolescent tripe that no-one will ever read and can skim in 2 seconds, and Part Zzzz was over as quickly as an American believes in TV news.
In part 2 - more garbage about parts of the body and zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz ...