Life ain't fair. Deal with it.
'Twas Bryl Cream
in the slippery tube
Did goo and gush to start my day.
Then memories of the brand new stoves
And stovepipes, whisked away.
Bare were the cinderblocks, my son!
The coals that heat, the oven's latch!
No longer a cookstove had I,
To roast my bandersnatch.
I took my butcher knife in hand,
For a scapegoat cast about,
Remembered that I lived alone
And plopped down on the couch.
And as I sat I heard a knock,
My scapegoat was at hand:
The ass who repossessed my stove,
Still screaming 'bout the tab!
One, two! One, two! I threw my shoes,
My knife now full forgotten.
Though as I threw the first, he dodged,
I know the second got him.
He ran off down the walk,
Tossing back obscenities,
And now he's somewhere lurking,
Plotting vengeance upon me.
Copyright © 2001-2002-2001 Sean C. Stacey. All Rights Reserved. Posted with Perimssion.