It was hard

of
genre
poems

Poking along behind
old men with tobacco
drool running off
their chins and never
my idea I
resented being ten
years old too
young and scared to force
my parents to admit
I had a real job
so I worked behind
old men for a buck
an hour it was enough
almost to buy the gun I
needed to put those
old tobacco sucking
fuckers away but then
I got lucky the
farmer found them one
hot sunday humping
young calves and
probably each other
all I know was that
one of them lost
a finger the other sported
a new scar across
the knuckles I asked
the farmer that did
the damage he sd yeah
I was gonna cut
off their hoses but they
were covered
in cow shit
knew the clap wd do
the final deed
he was
right
written on
2015-05-05
4 . 4 K
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3
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