Even with a soul
Spike's still
You hated
About school:
The cool boys
Who poured mud
Down your pants
At recess,
Or took your
Lunch money,
When they weren't
Kicking you out of
Your seat on the bus
As the watching
Girls giggled.
When you came
Home crying,
Your old man
Would say
From the easy
Chair in front
Of the T.V.,
While cracking
Open a beer
"Let him fight
His own battles,
It'll make
A man of him."
While your mother
Stood silently by,
Lips pressed tight,
Eyes dark.
So, tonight
When you
Come home
From work,
You yell at Spike
To get his lazy butt
Off your couch,
Take a shower,
And pick up
After himself,
'Cause you're
Sick of smelling
Him f'crissake!
When Spike
Opens his mouth
For backtalk,
You bellow:
"Shut up, you
Waste of time,
I'm the one
Who makes
The money
Around here!"
As you slam
Into the easy
Chair in front
Of the T.V.,
Cracking open
A beer
As the sports
Recites golf scores
In a monotone