Your Father is a Dead White Bastard

Your father was a white bastard,
product of World War II.
Your father was an ugly bastard
who grew up during
the depression
and escaped to bootcamp--
his ticket/kick-in-the-ass
to the big wide world.
Your father, the bastard
killing machine,
thought nothing of
belting you
'cus you deserved it
you no good lazy skinny kid
with your guitar
and that pussy poetry
and your long prissy hair.
Your father
thought nothing of
belting down
several drinks every night,
saying, "I saved your
fucking ass, put my ass on the
line against Japs and Nazis
for your dope-smoking
wasted generation."
Your father,
the macho bastard,
found love for sale,
love for American pennies
in the arms of
dark-skinned women--
Aleuts and Mexicans and Japanese and Filipinos--
women who would do anything
for a visa,
who would marry
the great white American,
beer belly and
bastard included.
He bought your sorry hippie ass
working for thirty years
for Company C
as in Capitalism,
you ungrateful little
socialist prick.
Your father died
at an early age
from too many
Budweisers and Marlboros
and too much
good ole American
bastardness
that killed his heart.
Your father
is a dead white bastard
and you could never please him,
and now he's dead,
and you still try to please him,
and the only time you cry
is when you cry for him
and you,
because you can't
reconcile it
'cus you hate him so much
'cus he was a bastard
but your mother loved him
and she loves you
and you love her
and now she's alone
'cus your father is
a dead white bastard,
and you failed him,
failed him completely and utterly
because you could never be
the bastard that he was.


© EPG