Poetry: Death by T-Rex

Come to me. Closer.
Stand before me, your naked
judgmental ass, as I hold
in my hand
this fine blood red wine,
and my 45 (or is it 9mm?)

And you tell me what?
I am old, too old?

When I pull this trigger
and the bullet leaves
the holey end of this
pistolla headed for
your ugly mug,

Will it matter
that you will never
see and never be
as old as I—better
not to been born at all.

And you will have died
(not that anyone will
give a fuck)
at the hand of an old
washed-up and worthless
poet fuck who, after
you cried and fell dead,

Turned and wrote a poem
about cappin’ your
nasty smelly ass—
arrogant mother fucker!
How dare you,
Call me a dinosaur?

Look both ways before calling the firing line clear.
Mind the gaps and old farts who write poems.

9 thoughts on “Poetry: Death by T-Rex

  1. Good energy. Message received. If you were a dinosaur, what would you be? I think I’d be the one with the long neck, the one that eats from trees. Brachiosaur? maybe? With reading glasses and bangles. I can dig it.

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    1. Thanks. I always like the idea of a flying dino types pterodactyl (Pterodactylus = Winged finger). Flying around giving the finger. But, I will have to settle for the regular way. 🙂

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