Home > Poetry > Excuse the Mess

Excuse the Mess

Gonna get me a gun

and head on over to the Wells Fargo,

ain’t gonna rob it,

cause I ain’t no criminal,

which is more than I can say for y’all.

just gonna blow my brains out all over their front doorstep,

around my neck you’ll find a sign,

in bright red letters,

Dear Mr. banker,

Here are my remains,

you are free to sell them and get what ya can for them,

That’s what y’all do anyhow,

So I cut out the pretense for you.

Excuse the mess.

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Categories: Poetry
  1. June 21, 2010 at 10:06 pm

    Ouch!

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