I don't much care today
who likes crunchy, who needs creamy,
who last dirtied their hands washing
the dishes or which one of you broke
your back doing not a god damn thing.
I hardly remember the last time I got a full
eight hours only to decorate the couch
with holy sweats and mismatched socks, fawning
over the wonders of one hundred and one channels
of modern day trash, so rather than makin' your dinner,
changin' your sheets, or settlin' one more remote control
power trippin' arguement for all you
couch loungin', no dish doin', can't hold a job
but expect the world to peel my grapes, spoutin'
wonders of manhood with your blonde haired,
blue eyed, penis wearin', all American White Male status
you hold so near and dear, I'm recommending a hard look
in the mirror right around the corner, in the room
with the handy hole you use for shootin' practice,
and if that doesn't float your boat,
trip your trigger, make your pulse race
like the local Bud Girls chair dancin' their way down the bar,
I'll do my best to whip somethin' up right quick,
with a smile, I might add!