Spring Things
Springtime.
(I’m cleaning her house.)
House: grinds, shades, butts, aquarium filters.
Dust mites, porn mags, spoiled milk.
All that trash: “Out!”
What, on the curb?
But the heat, it’s ab-SURD!
She goes, “Haven’t you heard?
“KNOCK IT THE FUCK
OFF!
“GO CLEAN THE TRUCK
OFF!
“Sitting there
looking fat,
“GO OUTSIDE instead
of BEATING OFF!”
Man, she really told ME off,
So I go outside and I lose the cough.
And bitches sing, “Spring
things!”
Spring brings allergies, itches, nothing more.
It goes.
(Now I
know I’ll get a ringer or two,)
(But I’m
so sick and fucking tired)
(Of
playing ‘rebound’ and shit-faced horseshoes.)
Trash: socks, cups, slides, stale pizza crusts.
Piggy banks, bottles, bud leaf dust.
All the trash: out.
On the curb
Is her ex, standing,
Singing, “Here’s the word!
“Boy, you'd better STEP
OUT
“On the driveway, SHORT
SPOUT!
“Man plus a baseball
bat
“Equals NOT FUCKING
ABOUT!”
Man, he really loves to shout.
So I go outside and I lose the pout.
My finger twitches, springs sting.
Spring brings him blood, stitches, maybe more.
He goes:
“Bite it off, buddy! Go
ahead and chew!
“I know that she’s gone
from me now,
“But let’s see if she
laughs the same with you.”
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