Itch

That feeling that you get
When they stand up to talk

And you're totally upset
So you just sit there and gawk
And they slather their stupidity
All over your fresh skin

Like some comic absurdity
Like a storm drain caving in
That you can't scrape clean

With even the most acidic insult
And you stifle the inward scream
That you carry with tumult
You suppress the growing urge to fight
Your palms itch, Your hands twitch

Your teeth grind against the withheld slight
When you resist the urge to bitch
You watch them as they come at you
Convinced of their vocation
As their stupidity runs through and through
Like some Grindhouse theatre monster exploitation
You muse a while and wonder
On their lack of education
Hoping they'd shut up
Before a bitter confrontation

And then you imagine with elation
If there was a time and place
If you provide that education
With a shovel to their face

-o0o-