You Cunts - A poem

You Cunts

at me again for fucking up
and being late.
arriving with a dose of the farts,
the result
of too much of everything
the night before.
and it’s fucking cold.
and more sleep would be good.
oh, and a crap.
(best get the order
right there.)
but instead:
after a slog through angry traffic
here I am again:
at the fucking workface
being badgered
being hectored
the usual crises raining down
and the noise next door
and the arse-kissers just as smug as ever
forcing me
to drink coffee until
my head’s ready to explode.
when, unexpectedly,
I grab sheets and fucking sheets
of paper
and write on them with a BIG
permanent marker
then stand up
and hold up what I’ve written
for all to see
laughing at their shocked slappy faces
when they read:

YOU CUNTS