Saturday, November 24, 2007
Grandma Hooch sat on the porch,
Drinking her grain scotch.
Not bothering to watch,
Billy burning her cat with a torch.
When little Billy was twelve
He could curse really well.
Though he never got it right until,
He could properly spell.
Jesse was a young girl, very frail,
And every chance he got, without fail,
He pulled at her pigtails.
Just to hear her wail.
Was never a time he wouldn't lie,
That he wasn't smokin' on the sly.
Or that he'd never seen girls changing,
With the hey-hole to his eye.
Played hooky from school,
Played the teacher for a fool,
Spent his class hours on a corner stool,
For saying history was a bunch of bull.
He crossed the border beyond craze,
He needed help to manage,
His heinous crimes of rage,
At the expense of his innocent age.
His dad locked him up in the closet,
For a long time, till he lost it.
Billy drew a line and crossed it.
All he did was lean back and spit
I didn't like it, he was my brother,
But Billy'd gotten a bit madder.
He told me he's have much rather,
Killed his own father.
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