It’s pouring rain,

you shithead.

And you’re sleeping

in the nice warm room,

or fucking the bird.

Till six in the morning I’ll rot

in the dying rain.

I must sweat out relief,

sweat out

you wriggling out of the sack

next to mommy. To pass

the dope: where you’ve flown to.

You take wing, take flight

You’d best not fall into my hands.

‘Cause I’ll pluck you while you’re airborne.

I’m not forgetting that rotten rain

when my raincoat and

the soles of my shoes

swelled to twice their weight.

And you

were making out

in the warm room.

The time will come

when I’ll plug the Danube with you.