I came across this little ditty while going through my archives of writings from the last two years – no small task, apparently. I thoroughly enjoyed stumbling across this little rant, tucked deep into my hard drive just waiting to see the light of day, though it probably shouldn’t. And here, my ode to a bad roommate. I never was much of a poet.
I will not miss the way you shout
Or the way your arms, they flail about
As your face turns red and mean and nasty
You called me c*%t; I heard you!
What do you take me for, a patsy?
The name you call your little dog,
Who looks less kanine and more a frog.
The words you speak in Italian at night
While [I didn’t finish this part, but I could write something about sharpening knives…knives would rhyme]
The wine bottles to which you did tend
The ones you stack from end to end,
In the rack, in the fridge, in the cooler beside your bed.
Not one, nor two, nor thirty will be missed.
They won’t be missed at all my friend.
Oh, I’m sorry! Did I say friend?
Because I meant Satan.