POOR TOM C.
I lived with a guy once,
Name was Tom C.
I’d go out drinking at night,
Blow all my money at the bars,
And stumble back home
There he’d be, passed out in his arm chair,
Where he’d been sitting all day.
A dozen and a half empty Bud Light cans
On the floor at his feet,
A burnt out cigarette in his hand.
I’d walk past him and collapse into bed.
In the morning he’d ask me,
“how much money’d you spend last night?”
And I’d say, “I don’t know. Too much.”
He’d smile this goofy smile,
Like he had it all figured out,
And he’d say to me,
“see, that’s how I’m gonna make it big.
I save my dimes. Every one of ‘em.
Growin’ up, my uncle always told me,
‘save your dimes and you’ll make it big’
And that’s what I do. I save my dimes.”
Finally one morning I’d had enough.
“Tom,” I barked. “A dime ain’t gonna
Get you shit in this world,
Especially since the ones you’re saving
Are only change from the money you
Spend on your cases of Bud Light.”
He glared back at me,
Anger slowly turning to disgust,
Then to surprise and finally remorse.
“shit,” he said. “maybe you’re right
About that one.