Fed Up

you ask me to pop the bones in your back
but I don’t ever seem to pop the right one
still you complain about the pain
and I have to explain
that I’m no chiropractor
nor am I an actor who played one on TV
so what more do you want from me
another day another wasted night
and it frightens me to see
that I might be wasting my life
watching it dwindle away with your words
between the slurs that slip
so nonchalant out of your drunken mouth
that stinks like the small print
on the bottom of the label
of your 30 dollar bottle of vodka
the one with Stalin standing proud
and it looks like another comatose Christmas
stockings hanging nearly empty
filled only with a sense of self-pity
that once was love for you when ya looked so pretty
before I lost all my admiration
before you underwent some transformation
like a butterfly emerging
from a cocoon experiment totally gone wrong
and I guess its best that I accept
that it even lasted this long
but my bags are packed and I won’t be back
the next time you stumble home