He was in the kitchen doing some shit
when the cop knocked and startled him.

“Sir, I don’t do that shit. I don’t even smoke cigarettes.”

The cop showed him a long list of names;
he was the thirteenth, some ominous shit.

“Did my ex say that? She talks a lot of shit about me.”

The cop warned him to get his shit together
and left after staring long at his paling face.

“Sir, don’t believe her. That bitter woman is full of shit.”

The following week, shit all over his pants,
he was dead, duct-taped, and cardboarded.

“Don’t be like this sad piece of shit if you want to live.”

Not far from the wake, the cop stepped on
the pile of dog shit on his way to knocking.

“I don’t even smoke cigarettes. Sir, I don’t do that shit.”


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