Now Your Messing With A Son Of A Bitch

you crossed me
that did it
you insulted my intelligence
Critics
yet who are they really anyways?
you live behind four walls that close in
it's too late you blew it
my pride is on the floor
lest I implore more
but that of what
a challenge to be free is a quest of time
you gave me the middle finger
just remember there's four fingers pointing right back at you
have I bitten off far more then I could chew?

Now your messing with a son of a bitch
give you another lousy dish
you tend to sweep things underneath the rug
no sense of remorse from me & no love
you bit & devour with viscous fangs that bite dripping blood of side
go run away & hide
standing alone with a noose around my neck
what the heck is this life for?
it's not known in a Studio 54
nor of that a Warhol piece of Campbell soup cans
hopefully someday you will understand
that you can't get away from sticking it to the man
life is to short for losers like you
sit back with your spaghetti with sauce & Ragu
you got eyes of blackened hot wired stench
ears that hear but you straddle the fence
said you read your books in school but you haven't made a dent
try to even the score lest I implore
another place in time hence another door

by John Ackerman

Other poems of ACKERMAN (625)

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