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Rat Bastard Like Yourself

By Wil C. Fry, April 19, 2000, 02:00

Copyright © 2000 by Wil C. Fry. All rights reserved.


Grinding and groaning and grunting and going
Sinking and shrinking and sucking and showing
With nothing to show for my trouble
And nothing to reap for my sowing
Breathing and bathing and barking and baying
Parting and playing and peaking and paying
With nothing to gain from my efforts
And no one to hear what Iím saying
Huffing and having and hurling and heaving
Lifting and leaning and listíning and leaving
With nowhere to hide from pursuers
And no chance of any relieving
Moving and muffing and marking and making
Talking and tweaking and tearing and taking
With nothing to warn me or show
That my heart is definitely breaking

Youíre a sad case, buddy, but I gotta tell ya, you pulled some sympathy out of this cold ass heart. Normally, I wouldnít look twice at a rat bastard like yourself, but see, Iíve been in that s**t hole before, I know where the hell youíre coming from. Donít look now, but here comes that b**ch again... Sorry, man, gotta split...

He lives in a hole with no fish, no pole
And when he comes out, heís only playing a role
But I wouldnít get up until the whole storyís told
Heís dressed like a bum, canít do no sum
And he canít remember the last time he c*m
But if you give him a dollar, heíll just go buy some rum
Speaking out loud, just one voice in a crowd
But when the show was over, he went out and bowed
He was happy just to say his piece like he vowed
And now youíre trippiní, like a fish, youíre flippiní
And eat that piece of pie that you been dippiní
But when he gets you down, youíll be unzippiní

Man, didnít I see you out here last week? Donít you even move from one motherf**kiní spot to another? Your ass gonna get frigginí sores, from sittiní in that same goddamn place. Yeah, I remember the b**ch - what happened? No s**t? Thatís a pile of s**t, dude; shouldnít let no whore treat a man like that... F**k! Here she comes again...

And now, if you canít see what Iím sayiní
Then you must be that b**ch he was runniní from
Or another one, just like her
And you probíly turned someone else into a bum
For the simple-minded, let me break it down
And explain each little part
If youíre brain-dead, itíll come to you slowly
Like the smell of a silent fart
You see, he was workiní, jerkiní
Pulliní more than his f**kiní fair share
And then she-devil run him down,
And now he canít even part his own hair
She nagged and she bitched
And she cheated and she stole
Always lookiní out for another, bigger man to fill her hole
    With no respect for a decent chump, a simple fella
    Aní now heís runniní scared, heís turned a little yella
Sheís got no respect for a decent man, a simple fella
Aní now heís drinkiní it down, his p**s more orange than yella

Sittiní on the curb, on the street corner
In the low-income end of town, smokiní his joint
Where the tracks run through, and the pigs donít visit too often
ĎCause thereís really no f**kiní point
He drinks, he thinks, he reeks and he stinks.
Wondering when his wandering will come to an end
Wondering if he can ever even be his own best friend
Not really caring whatís around the next bend.
And you could end up there, if youíre not careful
Or if you let your heart get the best of you.
I know you think Iím s**ttiní you, but Iíve been there, and itís true
The man is him, the man is me, the man is you.
Step back under the cover of your delusion
Try and resist the intrusion
Duck under the protrusion — start a revolution
But be wary, life is scary, my b**ls are hairy, and Iím not a fairy.
But I wonít get married, not to Sue or Jane or Mary.
Not to Steve or Sam or Larry.
Live a careful life, avoid the trap of a wife
Smile at another manís strife, but with pain, this world is rife.
Make sure your walls are under construction
Fight off the destruction.
Listen to my instruction, pull back from the suction
The drawing power of lust that will leave you in the dust
Iím telling you that you must not give up the fight
For sanity, for good, for right
Not that thereís any hope at the end of the rope of dope
That helps you to cope after you bent down for the soap
Not much, anyway. Just that tomorrowís another day, and every
Choice leads to a different way, a chance not to go astray

Smiling and seeking and searching and seeing
Flying not falling and fighting not fleeing
With a little hope for the next time you forget youíre a human being
Rolling and riding and rising and reaching
Trying and turning and taking and teaching
With an open ear for the truth that I give you when Iím preaching

Hey, ainít you the same cracker that I seen in that alley a while back? Looks like you found yourself, or somethiní, man. ĎCause you was lookiní bad and stinkiní like an unwashed whore outside that liquor store when you asked me for change and told me youíd work for food. Hey, here comes that b**ch again... What? Youíre not scared anymore? Thatís cool...



At the time, this was the second-longest poem I’d ever written, at 923 words (the longest was The Beauty Of Life, at 942 words). It was succeeded late in the year by A Nomad, As Always, at 930 words.



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