"hick" poems
the racist lesbian
who once called me
an uppity ******
who forgot where I came from
just had a baby
in West Virginia
who will grow up
without a father
or any mother
to support his escape
from a hick-ass town
if he even wanted
so I can't laugh too hard
and I say God Bless
'cause that's what they say
where I was raised
and if I walk around college
calling that white trash
it would only mean
that she was right
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 2:34 AM UTC
**† † †
A quorum of biblical scholars
turned their doubts into thousands of dollars.
Armed with Document Q
they revealed nothing new
but the dirt neath’ the white of their collars.
A proud “health & wealth” Oklahoman
was renowned as a gospel-tent showman.
While the scriptures he twisted,
their tithing assisted
his rise from poor hick to rich Roman.
A sexually diverse professor
(assured he was not a transgressor)
spoke only of openness
glossing sin’s brokenness;
rainbows and tolerance—yes sir.
A Mormon, who lost his own ephod
Realized he was running quite slipshod
and invoked Joseph Smith.
(Yes, it may be a myth—
but it’s not like misplacing your I-pod…)
A Christian whose faith was prophetic
held to views that were truly pathetic.
This crazed Pentecostal,
not quite an apostle,
had taken an End-Times emetic.
A sober and staid Presbyterian
was distrustful of thoughts millenarian.
After smoking some bud,
he awoke with a thud;
in his sleep he’d become Rastafarian.
A preacher who fleeced his disciples
overdrew his own balance of scruples.
He was finally captured
(defrocked and un-raptured)
and rent by his destitute pupils.
A sister who waxed Pentecostal,
mistook herself for an apostle.
Speaking pure glossolalia
she sure could regale ya’
with prophecy; crazy—but docile.
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
The Horse Race.
The announcer says the horse is at the gate.
There is wee ***** on your just silly;
Patty shes riding cupcake bite.
**** hes on hiccup.
The gate open and they are off. It's **** on hiccup, cup cake and wee ***** on just silly.
As the get to turn one it's ***** on just silly,Dick has hiccup at second and patty riding third with cupcake.
In turn two it's just silly,hiccup and cupcake. Turn four its cupcake,hick just silly
And now at the wire you got hiccup just silly and cupcake.
People we have to stop the race. Wee ***** on just silly ate patty cupcake which gave him the hiccups.
May 30, 2014
May 30, 2014 at 7:13 PM UTC
Born in these hills, taken away
when I was three.
Son of a coal miner who took
my mother, my brother, and me.
Drove west to the ocean, Pacific.
The kids there called me "hillbilly" and "hick."
Said I talked funny. Punched me, kicked me,
generally tried their best to make sure
I knew I didn’t belong there.
And I did not.
Eventually, though,
I learned to speak like them,
dress like them, act as if I was not
from Kentucky, my daddy
was not Appalachian, that
these mountains had no part of me.
My only recourse was
after the pledge of allegiance…
I never sang the “Oregon” song.
I sang, "Kentucky."
But, my father, he wouldn’t change.
He was proud of his heritage.
He played banjo; he played mandolin;
he went fishing, a lot.
Grew the best garden in the county,
ate soup beans and cornbread.
He did not give a hang for their Yankee ways.
I hated him. I hated my father.
until I returned to these hills.
Now I see them,
I see him,
in me.
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 6:53 AM UTC
you make me wanna...
punch your ******* face in
pop six packs out the case and
drink til im chasing
myself around this house...
you dumb *****
who the **** do you think this is.
**** me all day, then you got a night cap *****
**** i look like?
some ***** you just kickin it wit
couldn't even put my **** in it
before you switched
just know, you aint slick.
hoes won't learn
til they ******* burn
I hate to be so blunt,
babygirl... it's your turn
so don't come to me on no i love you ****
save it all for the hick licking on your ****
i don't have time for the games,
shorty you lame,
you wanna bump me down...
***** watch me do the same.
motha fuckah.
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 9:42 PM UTC
I never thought about my whiteness,
other than to realize
that I’m ghost-white
and therefore
not as attractive as some
tan buxom babe.
I thought more
about my economic status:
upper middle class
with plenty
that would give me a leg up,
that I knew I’d never
lack for higher education.
It has gradually occurred to me,
though,
that even though I may have
a societal advantage
being white and all that,
I’m still a chick
and therefore have
several strikes against my success,
or at least a comparable salary.
Not to mention the load of ridiculous
expectations to be
mother, successful career woman,
housekeeper, **** star, and ******
Hooray for the Bible Belt,
where church is next door to the ***
Adult stores targeted
at hick white males.
Hooray for my mother’s
Texas family
where it’s okay for an adopted
daughter-in-law
to be gay
but nobody else is allowed
and some of them will look
down their noses at my
Indian boyfriend
and ask me why
I’m diluting
my blood with a foreigner.
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 5:24 PM UTC
Anything you said is consequent to other declamation .
but i thought is symmetric to our own reflection .
our declaring prelude the inmost extend of our action .
with all but grim and glee of necessary life partition .
learn how to hold your tongue or you may dull your mission .
so let our thought have weight upon any of our every eruption .
cause morrow Sophist will dart light upon all our conclusion .
and for our name's sake let the blaze glow to its fullest elevation .
here and there ; nothing but cheap hick town pluck delusion .
phenomenon to blame and frail wont reach at any situation .
side-long-way , matter of rear pie but notwithstanding altercation .
the sage nut is not the one that proffers at all event ; citations .
but measure with all time honored a thought irreversible as motion .
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
Meteoric Buick
Slick *****
Frantic frenetic
Majestic kick
Chick shtick
Shashlik
Nicotinic stick
Lick flick
Hermeneutic heretic
Magnetic rhetoric
Hick logic
Strategic
Plastic music
Tick click
Bucolic Bardic
Peptic druidic
Rustic emetic
Sceptic
Polymeric quirk
Sick trick
Turmeric trimeric
Septic *****
Wick crick
Derrick
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 12:27 AM UTC
(truck-drivers, bar-boozers, loser-bar yokles, blue-collar rednecks will all love this smash hit song!!!)
Rockin country genre
"Big Mouth Surgery"
(by david John Clare)
(rockin' country drunk hick juke-box mix)
Wow! She sure does talk a lot... could almost cause a riot
But we don't get... just what she's trying to say
We could hear her fine before... when she used to be quiet
Guess all them new school-words get in the way
We took her to see... a gypsy-psychic-magician
But he wanted more... than we could pay
So we took her down to see... our local town physician
And here's what old doc... had to say
Boys...
"She needs Big Mouth Surgery"
Her tongue is on the blink
She just talks, sqwacks and talks some more
'Cause she don't know how to think
So please don't be stallin'
Her brain is now corrupt
Can't you see that she has fallen'
And she just can't ''shut-up!"
Big Mouth Surgery
Cause no pills seem to work
Hurry please now doctor
Before she drives us all berserk
Big Mouth Surgery
But will it work without a doubt?
Better make it a lobotomy
Before she starts to shout!
(solo)
Our reputations are expensive
While her talk is **** cheap
You just can't tell her nothin'
'Cause a secret she can't keep
No one seems to know
What the fuss is all about
We're just waitin' for her brain
To catch up with her mouth
She needs Big Mouth Surgery
Her mind is on the blink
She always talks, talks and talks all day
Why can't she just please stop & think?
So please don't be stallin'
Her head is all corrupt
Can't you see that she has fallen'
Her fat-mouth can't shut-up!
Big Mouth Surgery
We need to find her a shrink
Hurry please there doctor
Before she drives us all to drink
Big Mouth Surgery
She's heard north, east, west & south
Who gave her brain a laxative?
Got diarrhea of the mouth!
Big Mouth Surgery
No pill can take effect
Hurry please now doctor
She is a mental wreck
Our minds: she made us loose
Her words: just seem to ooze
It's so hard: to take a snooze
We just drown all-day in *****
Beer, Whisky, Wine & ***** . . .
To wash away our ear-ache blues!
Yip Yip Zip Lip! ...Yee Haw!
(c) 2009 David Wayne Clare
CLAIRVOYANT MUSIC / BMI
all rights reserved
in perpetuity
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 2:28 AM UTC
I've been trying to poet off and on
now for awhile - but it's hard for a guy
like me, born and raised in small towns.
I've never really learned to swear,
not like a poet anyway. Not like Bukowski.
I mean, what kind of poet would
the world expect me to be? Except that
I'll admit I can drink with the best.
A Huffstickler I'm not, or a Bukowski,
or Etter, or Kerouac - guys who knew the
big towns, the ***** the dives, the rehabs,
the back alleys, park benches, soup kitchens,
flop houses, drug pushers — Humm, come to
think of it, we got all those here. But not
the all-important big town poet attitude.
I'm just this hick, delusional perhaps,
trying to fill a blossoming hole inside
of me that grumbles and claws for more,
and there's gotta be more to life than this crap.
In poeting I used to try and rhyme, like as
in "poor" and ***** but there's
no rhyme to life, just grab it and clench.
Just life, death, burial and maybe a little
something for the dog afterwards.
The preacher says there's more,
the devil tells me to forget it,
(I'll listen to him occasionally).
So, for me, I'll probe a little deeper and
scrutinize a little harder, perhaps drink a
little heavier, and maybe find a plug
out there that'll fill the hole inside me.
Maybe even put it in words.
Become a poet.
--
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 4:53 AM UTC
The village pump is where she was stationed
Her purpose in life, to glean information
Every morsel of 'news' she'd greedily savour
Though reluctant to empty her head, to fill up her neighbour's
That mucky young hussy's expecting you'll find
I'm certain I know who did it this time
He bought a bike, the crafty young fella
And no good came on it Doris I tell ya
He put one in Fram in the family way
And thas a good fifteen mile away
And if you ask me, he's too fond of his sister
If there's a young'un who's willing round here he'd not miss her
So lock up your daughter do she'll be the next
He'll be snouting round here before long I expect
And look at poor Bob, they say he's frustrated
They reckon his hip bone is half discolated
Same as old **** see him hick with his stick
All wore up and not sixty as yit
You don't look wholey clever yourself
Doris you really should keep an eye on your health
And Grandma Green has took to her bed
I'll drop by there today, 'cos same as I say
You're a long time dead
Well I should be going, I've said too much already
Cheerio now, and do you goo steady
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 3:43 PM UTC
When I attempt to think about my future, I know I can't. I know, I can only do what I can now to piece together my future like a puzzle. I want to get on T, I want to cut my hair shorter than my parents allow, I want more body modifications, I want to have a completely flat chest, but at the moment, I can't imagine what I'd turn into. A butterfly I'm not able to picture yet. I am at the moment, a small catapillar, not being able to pass for the gender I wish. She's. Hers'. That's not what I want directed towards me. I wants he's and they's. Male and neutral term are what I want my friends to use. Not my birth name, Kit. Kit Lucas Zachary is what I'll become when I get older and scrounge the money together to make that change possible. I must change myself and bold myself into what I want to be happy, even if that means I lose people, I can deal. If they don't agree with how I feel, they don't need to be in my life anyway. I can't say that I'm a boy yet, I can't say I'm pansexual yet. The violence that is occurring against my LGBTQ+ people locks my lips together to my parents, and possibly some of my friends, because I don't want them to be my demise. In this hick state of Texas. My chest binder must be put up due to high summer tempatures, it's too hot to have on so I can't feel at home in my own body. I hate my feminine face, and my father uses double standard, making me shave, making me feel naked and incorrect. I feel incomplete, like I haven't had my right growth spirt, my right puberty. "Oh yeah, she-" makes me want to put a bullet in my head, but it I pulled the trigger I know my family wouldn't understand why. "Hey girl!" don't look, don't turn, they aren't talking about you. But, once I'm an adult with a steady income, I hope to become the person I wish to be.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 11:35 PM UTC
My country is full of people
too violent and dumb to be anything else.
We value money, bodies, and your stuff
because it is not ours yet.
My flag is wrapped around some
white-trash hick's middle finger.
You look different than us and
that is ******* terrifying;
please leave while we stay
in your country,
'protecting you'.
My country is home to
religious freedom, as long
as the religion is Christianity.
My country is the world's
greatest melting *** but
we'd prefer all ingredients
to be the same or die.
My country is a joke,
thinking it's the standard
the world desires to achieve.
My country is the world police,
creating tension, harassing you,
hating you, taking from you.
Jan 29, 2017
Jan 29, 2017 at 7:15 PM UTC
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gKPEOfybQak&feature;=related
*Remember his name when you look at the night sky.
- the Toe-cutter*
You are the Night Rider,
a fuel-injected suicide machine,
a rocker, a roller,
a no-controller,
yer a cop killer,
the mighty weird hand of vengeance
come to smite the un-roadworthy.
You, Night Rider,
clearly unaffected
by the state’s urgings
to “yield” and, perhaps,
“soft shoulder”.
You are the Night Rider,
sleeping in on a Tuesday,
performing your masculinity
in unshowered, unshaved machissmo.
Night Rider,
won’t you come to your senses?
Nobody enjoys maniacal laughter
anymore.
It makes us think of ****
covered in fleas, bedbugs,
whiskey ****
or Janis,
and the last moments of an American Saigon.
Ahh… Night Rider,
we share your machine lust,
your fetish,
your hard-on for the muscle-bitch,
the suped-up hot rod,
the last of the V-8 Interceptors
(1973 Australian Ford XB Falcon GT).
We, too, like a nitrous kit,
a roof and tail spoiler,
we likes our flat black:
………....................our murderous speed
………..........................has driven daddy to drinkin’.
We ride!
Night Rider, we understand.
We get the lurid infatuation,
but, **** yer a hick-weed,
all these roads lead to jail
–how have you not grasped this simple truth?
The highway is not freedom,
but a circular slave song.
Oh, rider of the night,
why all the re-runs of Seinfeld?
And cheese bread?
You’ve grown a belly, N.R.,
and while it might be glam
to be young, dumb
and full of ***
or all muscle
in butt-less chaps at 21,
you’re 45, Night Rider,
and no-one cares anymore
about your straight-line revolution,
about your road to freedom,
about it,
about what kind of future
you and Floosie would’a made.
The kids are alright
but
they ain’t never heard
of you
nor your last,
wild-eyed flight.
As the Lord Humungous has indicated,
no one
gets out
alive.
Jun 22, 2012
Jun 22, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC
I saw Agnes outside Harrods
Looking tres chic, le chic
I say darling, what's happening, sweetie
where's your Wainpatrik from the sticks
our erudite writer who thinks aspic is pate
I gave that hick the 'go find your level'
Agnes replied with a smile
You know how it is with him and his drivel
that coarse, crude, pretentious oik without a shovel
He tries to be intelligent but his head is full of gravel
bathes once a fortnight and has a todger like a weasel
You can't beat good breeding, she continues
those reconstituted barrow-boys
with B-Tech English thinking they are now genuine
Lacks confidence, style, self assurance, wet as the Rhine
******* in the boudoir, sloppy kisser, todger like a string
Bully and a coward trolling on his stolen PC, has no spine
Hey, lets **** down round my pad, she purred
You may be out of shape at the moment
But who's cooler, more charismatic and interesting than vous
Do you know you're the best I have ever had and I mean it too
You're head and shoulders above Wainputrid and that's so true
The twerp is so envious of you, he and his barrow mates stew
Tales of your exploits and size just leaves them aghast and askew
Hahaha...haha..she laughs as she linked arms, a glint in her eyes!
Sep 1, 2018
Sep 1, 2018 at 1:59 PM UTC
I feel apart of this hick town place
Breathing in life, through open, clean air
Trapped by my mind in a wide open space
My granddad showed me on his Gum tree
The marks left by moths and beetles alike
I went to touch them whilst he let them be
The Scribbly Gum tells the same story
Our lives intertwined in memories
The aftermath of destruction, can be beauty
My chubby hands admire what my eyes miss
like a blind man hungry for the verse
I feel the indented trails, lead me into the abyss
I envy those tiny critters, hiding away
creating art without even knowing
One day I shall join them and there I shall stay
Dancing glimpses of times past
The smell of eucalyptus sticking to hot air
Pulling, aching strings of my childish heart
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 11:56 PM UTC
All of the pencils in the drawer are broken
Friday Night I'm sick of being alone
Hopping off the curb in search of the killer
Sniffing out the house parties
They like the bass loud and it swells
******* us inside past ten parked cars
They freestyle about
Gun fire and blood on concrete
He said I didn't believe him
Cracked out beyond repair
He shows me the scythe and hammer tattoo on his left breast
I laugh with the proletariat
Cheers and some soul passes me the bottle
Cigarette smoke contained by plaster walls
I'm eight days sober
Don't tread on me
Says a ***** blond next to me on the couch
All strung out she is searching
Searching for a bent spoon and needle in the tall grass
Back yard a bonfire
Walking barefoot on broken
Heineken bottles strewn in the shadows
Popping molly and sweating
She called me a hick
Her dopamine receptors
Rubbed flat by heavy grade sandpaper
I called her nothing
I was too busy watching
The rats scurry against the wall
To their safe warm nest
In the insulation
A hand around my wrist
Milk white incubus
With breath like puked whiskey
I escaped through a hole in the couch
I fell between the cracked leather cushions
And slept with the rats in piles of pink
Fiberglass insulation scratching at the flesh
I slip outside through the cracked window
A woman stands at a console
Turning dials that cause the streetlights to dim
And bleed storefront windows fractals of neon
She asks me what else I would like to know about the world.
Someone tells me to get in and the door shuts
A sound like gunfire I perspire sweat with cough
Syrup scent peaking on the dark road to Okeechobee
I should **** myself or run barefoot again through your head
Where the forest floor is warm and the trees are alive always with birdsong
Apr 6, 2013
Apr 6, 2013 at 4:14 AM UTC
I’m sick and tired of people rabbiting on a load of ****
About their ******* duty and fighting for freedom
For the fat ugly patriotic selfish folks "back home"
And pathetic ****** neo-fascist ******** like that
And gabbling on a load of sentimental horsedung
About giving their all for their ******* useless country
When honestly they’d rather be at home in some ugly provincial hick town
Patting their nasty mongrel dogs and groping their neighbours’ wives' arses
And eating mumsy-wumsy’s over-cooked meat and stodgy apple pie
Whilst ensconced on the sofa watching sodding Celebrity Big Brother.
How can a soldier nowadays say he didn't want to be there?
Are people so ******* thick or blind or moronic not to realise
A person volunteers to be in the armed forces in most countries nowadays?
There’s no ****** press gangs or ****** conscription any more;
People become soldiers because they choose to do so
(exceptions include filthy ******* shit-holes like Israel
where the young men queue up to **** Palestinian babies for fun) .
Therefore soldiers DO want to fight, they DO want the chance to ****
And they willingly risk their own ugly unwashed redneck necks.
So they have no right to whine and bellyache when they get asked
To earn their daily state-paid bread and do a spot of killing
Instead of sitting on their overweight arses at MY expense.
Or course, they could show some real guts and resign instead,
But what the **** why pass up on a chance to do some
Legalised ****** and get paid handsomely at the same time.
Just in case you think I forgot, I am totally and fully aware
That 'he' includes 'she' in this context now that women
Have an equal chance to have their military buns blown off pointlessly.
So don't whinge or expect sympathy when your body parts come home in a bag.
Personally, I am of the belief that the only good soldier is a dead soldier,
And the more the merrier. RIP military thugs and up yours.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
It don't take much to make me happy
'Cause I'm from the south
I just need some good soul food
To cram into my mouth
Or I can sit on the creek bank
With my best fishing pole
Casting my line expertly
Into my secret fishing hole
A moonlit hike into the woods
Will soothe my achin' soul
Them city folks don't understand
It's better than silver or gold
When Sunday rolls around it's time
To get myself dressed up
The laying of hands and speaking in tongues
Will come if the Spirit moves us
There's a glamour to the south
Like a work of art that's living
Even the poorest of the poor
Open their hearts and are giving
So call me a redneck or a hick
It doesn't matter to me
I'm proud to be a southern girl
There's no place I'd rather be
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 9:00 PM UTC
cover up dear,you've got to remember the uglies.
she said.
but i strip.
and there is the wind ,
i hear the waves,
what comes will be the rain,
and i want it too,
impale me, strike me,
unleash its fury,
i know its free
i see her still,
backwards hick,
piece of ****
you do not know me,
you never wanted to
but i bring the uglies to the water
i strip because i was born to be inhabited
you cover me with the lies of your lovers lost
but i will not be defined by your backwards mind
the inverted hope you that you try to rip into me with
i dive into the sea it always welcomes me,
its my lost lover, it caresses me ,
it weaves around the tattered corners of my heart and heals the rough parts
i accept the waves as the rock me and i listen to the tempo and i move with in its embrace
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 8:06 PM UTC
it was uncomfortably
hot out today
i put my cardboard box
down on the pavement
and squinted into
the midspring sun
grateful for the
knowledge
of the truth
the ukulele truth
and nothing but
the truth
like i could
scream every
johnny cash song
i've never learned
at every pathetic smoker
disobeying the signs
and i understood
oh but did i
understand
why they're always
pushing friday
on midweek radio shows
it's thursday
at 3pm
and guess what?
now we're free
*(to roll in the grass
and soak up the sunshine
or maybe just
take a nap)*
tell your winter
clothes where they
can stuff it
and your hick
christmas lights
to get lost
there's a pitcher
of unsweetened
ice tea with just a
dash of lemon juice
waiting for me when
i get home
and a cracked
front step to
nod off on once
it gets cooler
and even these
june bugs
out in may can't
bring me down.
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 11:39 PM UTC
He wants to tell her of a story he read once
About that gorilla who could sign
And taught its baby to sign
How when the baby died
The flailing of her fingertips
And the movement of her hands
Said more about loss than anyone ever cared to know
She looks at him
Hot pho steam moistening her face
There is a man pacing outside the windows of the restaurant
It is a whole in a wall
In a small city
The city is *****
Next to the restaurant is a bar
They listen
Juke box bass hick thunder through the walls
She ***** a noodle into her mouth
“Is this a date,” she says
If you want it to be
“It’s not exactly romantic”
He smiles
thinks about what it means to be romantic
Remembers the list with the boxes to check off
Of will she **** me later
It’s all too generic
And we are so talented at romanticizing the trivial
That people forget how to be charming
He thinks of death-beds
And what she might say to him
Maybe it isn’t now. But later, you’ll remember this guy
And you’ll think of that weird place he took you to this one time.
It wasn’t exactly romantic.
But for whatever reason
You will remember me for doing things like this.
He wants to tell her of the gorilla
With the sad hands
His own hands tremble
He thinks of languages people spend lifetimes learning
She sips her water
Wipes sweat from her face
She smiles
It is beautiful when she smiles
He smiles too
Shivers as the doors open and the cold comes in
Maybe in some other universe
The words would have meant more to her
They would have made sense
He fills the silence with the sound of soup
She looks at him again
The thunder through the walls stops
And all he can think of
Is the gorilla who learned the language of love
And lost the need to use it
Feb 13, 2012
Feb 13, 2012 at 4:03 AM UTC
Did you not take my breath away
The one gift
you can not give
and still stay
Tethered born
from belly
connect
and belly torn
Did I not thrive for life
suckling sure
gulping love
sipling strife
Were we not
all apples
before what eyes
Before the fall
of yours
and mines
Sorry apples
nuts and rut
would ***** come
poured down
the thriving throat
What is regurgitating
other longing
re urging
swallowing
submerging
To diaphram
disruptive
falsely claiming
urgent distractions
What is to liver
becomes malaise
all jibberish
Shoot me
some adrenal-ish
before i get in
or get out
of that monster
fish
Fry me
in your pan cre-ole us
to the suet of your filet
digest me
your way
Something in this burpling
will no longer
pass thee usurping
Hick upped
or gassing passing
selling poses
of the sweeter
smell of roses
Jun 10, 2012
Jun 10, 2012 at 2:13 PM UTC
Arms at her sides
Hangin' like a noose loop
Radio music sporadic static
Choking on some air waves
Her heart is locked up
She keeps it in the bottom drawer
Her house is surrounded by chain-link
Concertina wire
Shes too good for you
She has a picnic alone
Feeding crumbs to the ants
Sympathetic
So grown up and independent
I thinks its just chemical imbalance
Are you still waking up
To the shotgun blast alarm clock
Sleeping in the pitch black
Washing dishes burning matches
Watching television addict
Too young
To have it all figured out
Halfway through
You'll choke on the pieces
******
Dog on a short chain
Too good for me
She's too busy curing cancer
And feeling sorry for herself
Someone told me what you said
I was a piece of **** hick
Drug addict rat
Because you know me?
I've got a strong chin
Been hit harder than that
There's the door
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 11:33 PM UTC