RIP Bitch
Rollin on the bed,
Clock says ten,
Eyes bug in disbelief,
You have work at seven.
Son of a bitch!
Car is runnin at sixty mph
On a 55 speed limit,
Your pushing it to seventy
But a car cuts in, screeching.
Your face is blushin,
In anger, seething.
Any moment you’ll be crushin
Muttering aloud, bitch!
But there is no sense in bemoaning
Your ill luck by
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