Grumpy Bastard

Grumpy Bastard

You and I watched him talk to someone.
Maybe himself. Possibly someone else.
The inner layer of his Egg McMuffin?
Certain communicable properties of his
klondike mustache? The guy was upset.
He had already had a bad day, at 9 a.m.

Basically, don't give him a gun.
It's a Monday morning. He doesn't go to work
today. Nor any day this upcoming week.
But do not prolong your gaze. He will
tear your eyes out, and shit on them.
Because you looked at his.

c. Ciprianowords, Inc. 2010