Shave your mott

This is the third winter you’ve been out. The first two you lived in a box but this third year, you’ve graduated to a trailer.

The orange juice you’ve been drinking hasn’t been agreeing with your stomach, so I suppose you’re going to drop dead in a week or two. Bets have it you won’t last a fourth winter. Hope it don’t hurt  to die.

They’ll find you hard as a rock with a messy bullet wound in your head. Reckoning has it you’ve been dead a week. The lil doggy of yours licks the dried blood of your  wound and shivers with hunger and cold at the nape of your cold, dead,  neck…growling & whimpering–bravely defending your corpse.

You never amounted to shit in your life.  There are many reasons you can attribute  this to,  but won’t admit. You’re  good at blaming because no one listened to you anyway…and that’s what really hurt.

The drunk hunters that found you took the dog to train(or eat)–then they set the trailer on fire. They’d need to keep warm on this 3 dog night.

That’s how little men survive.


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