By Amy Thomson
This one is about the fucking asshole men that came into the restaurant I work in 15 minutes before we closed, treated me and my female co-worker like shit, were incredibly obnoxious and loud as they shot the shit with the male bartender about basketball as they stayed 30 minutes past close, kept the kitchen from cleaning their shit, and literally booed me (very loudly) to my fucking face. I felt my veins course with adrenaline and rage. Instead of losing my shit and beating them over with their stupid-ass snapbacks they wore as 30 year old men and going to prison for murder, I decided to come home and channel my rage into a poem. I will call it “Dude-bro” and it is dedicated to my lovely co-worker, Gray Nielson.
I won’t let it go.
We closed twenty-fuckin’ minutes ago.
Pay the fucking bill.
No, sir, you can’t get a fuckin’ refill.
Your brain’s fuckin’ mush.
You clearly ain’t even tryin’ to rush.
Dude bro, learn,
Ain’t always your turn.
Get the fuck out now and never return.
You don’t have a clue.
Phallic energy makin’ me feel blue.
I will make you cry,
Kill you, grill you, serve you up on rye.
Gonna be real fun,
Won’t know what hit you when we fucking done.
We laugh as we sip
Blood of dude-bros that made us lose our grip.