Would Rather Watch It Rot Poem by King Happy

Staring through the wall
of a certain kitchen room,
a daydream of violence at work.


How many throats
could I possibly slit
before some one tries to stop me?
I'd like to think I could
at least get half of this kitchen on a slow day.


But then I brush the thought away,
it's time to make more hot dogs.
Something to do for 5 minutes,
Oh boy.


Staring at the mark again,
That little spot of mustard on the wall.
It became my little friend that shift
because we are all just mustard on the wall.
We've been put here by accident
from a force too lazy to correct itself.
And someone, or something
is gonna wipe us off the stucco,
but it's not gonna be me.