Note Pad Scribblings
The F*** Word
Everyone looks up when it’s heard,
The infamous F word,
Does it give the next word strength?
Does it bind?
Hey look at that,
What are you fu**king blind?
Is it less, is it more?
It’s heard as soon as you walk
Out the door,
What the F*** does she want,
What the F*** is he doing here,
I don’t give a flying F***,
It’s in your head, it’s stuck,
When children say it,
Our chins hit the floor,
It freezes you down to the core,
Makes your heart sore
And it feels as if we were
Struck by a truck,
And in reality it seems
That no one gives a F***.
The Hot Shot
He’d take a moment to just sit,
Only when he feels like losing it,
With nothing said,
His face bright red,
His eyes would roll up into his forehead,
As it always did when he gets steamed,
It’s not news,
It takes a lot to get his emotions streamed,
He does have a pretty long fuse,
Let someone ride him too far,
Then in comes the hot shot,
You could hear him from the parking lot,
Those eyeballs would roll up
Like an Atlantic City gambling slot.
© 2013 Frank Atanacio
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