Scrubbing at the stains of my mistake
The owner of the store says I graffiti-tagged his fence
Tell Corey what you thought of this poem in the guestbook.
But it won’t go away
A smile forms across his face
As I am forced to pay
And if I’m guilty of anything
It’s not of what he said
I’m guilty of wanting that ball-licking faggot
To feel a bullet tear through his head
I try to offer several words in my own defense
But he does not listen as I tell, implore and shout
So I retrieve my gun and blow his fucking brains out