I am sick to the hind teeth
of singing those lonesome,
over you, honey.
You were crap in bed
when you weren’t busy being average.
Your sister gives far better head…
and her ‘gag-reflex’
limits that experience
down to a task oriented procedure.
I’ll keep your name tattooed
upon my loving, manly chest
as a reminder of my lucky escape.
Thank fuck we didn’t have children…
there really must be a God up there!
If I take anything away from this mess,
besides bitterness, resentfulness
and extreme pessimism…
it’s that, now you’re out of the way
it leaves room for the next psychopath.
I’m quite looking forward
to emptying my ball-sack
into something prettier than you…
I’m not a mathematical man
but, I reckon the odds
are looking really good there.
I’ll be seeing you in Hell, sweetheart
and occasionally marauding
through my DTs…
but until then, Ruby…
for fuck sake, go take your love to town!