Rodak's Writings

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Her Gentleman Callers

This one wags his words
Like a puppy dog watching
Its bowl fill up with kibble.

That one has himself photographed
Trying to look like Snoop Dog
From the cab of a redneck pickup.

Over there another one
Is signing autographs through the window
Of the car he’s living in.

Here comes the one whose sister
Is a crack whore living in his garage
On table scraps and insect protein.

That youthful wanker there has
“The wogs begin at Calais”
Inked across his Dover-white arse.

And then there’s me
Throwing elbows in the crush:
We all love ya, lady, don’t we guys?
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