The perps are in the parlor,
the burps are in the beer.
Mold grows in the fridge,
is the end still near?
The urbs are in the city,
neither here nor there.
Forgotten little oases,
for trash and bums to share.
The perks are in the boardroom,
the smell of sweet success.
Do I smell graft and bribery?
Bet your sweetheart's ass.
The pervs are in the bedroom
hacking their lusty high.
The little girl they’re chatting with,
is middle-aged and FBI.
The cops are in their squad cars,
with all their senses turned up.
To swarm down on a perp,
like bees to the honey cup.
We call the generations,
x, y, and z.
We could think of a longer term,
but there isn't time, you see.
So we invent little words,
to speed us on our way.
Now if I can only abbreviate,
"Have a nice day!"
More Poems
My Place
Read War's End, the Novel
Copyright 2005 © Ronald W. Hull
6/12/05
Btw, byob, and stop lol, you perp!