Bad Poetry: Peanuts

Continuing with the great” Bad Poetry of 1995″ phase of my life, here is another little gem I wrote. Methinks a new hobby is in order.

Peanuts / spring 1995

Okay, so I am like sitting by my lonesome
and I am eating roasted peanuts, but
which brand I am not so sure. This is not
important unless you are one of those
people, which I am not. Well, this creep –
I mean guy – comes up and takes a seat,
the one directly opposite my view, and
he starts to ramble on about this and
that and here and there, do I look like
someone who really gives a shit? He
chuckles as he reaches into the can
where I have my stash of roasted peanuts.
Do you mind I ask him – no, not at all
and he takes the entire can from my
grasp. I discreetly take out my semi-
automatic and I blow his balls off to
Cairo. I let him keep my peanuts
since he no longer has any of his own.


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