A Poem for a Sunday Night

If you're reading this, you know who you are...for everyone else, I'm just venting.  As usual.

I hate your voice, your bleached blonde hair,
your pink sweat pants, the fuzzy slippers you wear.
I hate your laugh, your thoughts, your nose;
you look like a hooker--I hate your clothes!

Your nose is huge, I think you're a man,
with your shaved haircut and obviously fake tan.
Get a real job, quit milking the system,
and get away fast, 'cause it's clear that you use him.

Don't talk to my son, don't come back around,
I'd be perfectly happy if you had to leave town.
You smoke like a chimney, your voice sounds like nails.
My displeasure with anything else now pales.

I really don't care if your feelings are hurt,
I'm not usually mean, but sometimes it's deserved.
I'll ignore you, I'll "dis" you, I'll treat you with dread.
What does he see in you?  He's not right in his head.

You con him, you shmooze him, you fake your affection,
when all I can wonder about it is, what's the connection?
Go clean houses and cash your mooched government check,
In your "toilets so clean, you can eat off them,"--not a speck!

I hate you, I loathe you, I'll never get past it.
I'm not even nice enough to try and mask it.
So do me a favor, and do it today.
Do it quickly, with haste--just go away!