Roger, good one. I'd hate to be on the receiving end of those words--ouch!
here's another that seems to fit here.
Ferocious Precocious
“Where do dollars come from, Dad?”
I told her from the mint.
She scrunched her face and glared at me
--eyes narrowed to a squint.
“Where does money come from, Dad?”
I told her, from my boss,
who pays me for the work I do.
She stiffened up, arms crossed.
“He gives the green kind to you, Dad?”
I said, “I get a check.”
She yelled, “That isn’t dollars, Dad!”
The veins bulged on her neck.
I said, “A check’s a promise, hon,
that his bank gives to mine.
It doesn’t change to dollar bills
until both sides are signed.”
She said, “I want a promise check!
You gotta write it now!
And help me sign it cursive style
because I don’t know how.”
“Make sure there’s lots of zeros, Dad.”
The hairs stood on my head.
“‘Cause that’s what I’ll inherit when
you finally get dead.”
[This message has been edited by fivefootone (edited November 26, 2008).]
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