Stab That Man
Every single day at four thirty-five,
I have to hear the same lame jive,
As I cross the street to catch the bus,
I become enraged and start to fuss.
There's a cop that traffics the cars across,
An intersection at which I'm instructed to pause,
And as his whistle blows to make the cars stop,
I come across the same old lame fop.
A man-child with a curt mustache,
A melon head and mammoth ass,
Says it every day to my disbelief,
To the crossing pig he quips out,"Thanks, chief!"
Stab that man,
Stab that man,
Won't somebody kill that guy?
I mean it, now, it's the same every day,
"Thanks, chief," as he plods along his regular way,
In the direction directly opposite me,
As to rub it in that his back's knife-free,
The first time I heard it I thought him retarded,
But he's asking for vengeance as I now regard it,
One day as thunder was stewing the swelter,
He said to me, thoughtlessly,"I suggest you find shelter."
No shit, Sherlock, you oaf and you bellow,
Dear God, why has nobody murdered this fellow?
Every single day I hear him summon Grim's Reap,
As we cross, and I listen, and he blurts out,"Thanks, chief!"
Stab that man,
Stab that man,
Won't somebody stab that man?
