Petey

Fucking morons,
all of em,
think they got what it takes to
take me on,
no
tell me they have the unions
on their side,
I’ll blast em
away
invincible,
that’s what they call me,
Fought many a man off a
rooftop parking garage,
left em’ bloodied
had the cracked knuckles
but I didn’t care it was
worth it,

Petey calls me One Scrappy
Mother Fucker,
Says I got what it takes for
the big times,
like Petey knows jack shit about
fights,
he doesn’t know
the blood
the pump of the heart,
the heat in your crotch
when you knock a guy’s teeth loose,

Petey’s a writer,
that’s all there is to it,
Petey’s just a writer,
albeit a damn good one,
Damn good
but he’s not scrappy like me,
nope,

All of em are just fucking morons,
all but Petey,
Always prancing his little
well-dressed
ass
around in the sun,
like he’s on of those kids raised
off
Sunset Blvd.

Petey’s a Poor
gone Sad
gone Angsty
gone Lucky Rich
son of a gun.
Only got through High School
because he was too smooth-talking
to hit.

All of them are fucking morons,
the rapists
gangbangers
thugs
the whores in miniskirts outside
the hairdresser on Sundays
the plant managers with the slick hair,
the gardeners
with the scraped thumbs and brown knees
and me,
but not Petey
he’s good,
he sits
and
he writes
and
he makes it for himself

unlike you

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