I don’t want to shovel snow anymore,
I don’t want to cleanup fuel spills anymore.
I want all bosses, present & past, to suck my hiney,
for tonight, I must shovel snow again.
I’d rather stay at home, confined in bed,
listen while snow strains worn rooftop,
assume N.S.A's too occupied by Wikileaks
than to worry about crash come down upon me.
I don’t care about spilled gasoline on highways,
the environment cares not for me.
I cannot afford Marcellus Shale natural gas,
I don’t have money for my funeral,
I don’t even have money for rock salt.
Come morning, I scrape car windshield,
I don’t want to shovel any more snow,
so I admonish wife Carol to take her turn,
I really do not want to get on her ass,
I am too old for such leapfrog stuff.
More snow, a mailman falls upon sidewalk,
I pretend not to notice her wriggle in pain.
My boss demands I get a haircut, “or else,”
I want to feed him yellow snow,
strike him with ergonomic shovel,
let Taylor D.P.W. uncover the remains.
I want to live & bitch about faraway Ukraine,
sand shoveled upon Chernobyl reactor # 4,
Hagel's 82nd Airborne cuts, California drought,
Gerrity's Market ground beef on sale @ $2.99/ lb. –
I do not want to shovel red meat when August '14 comes.