CUNTS (a poem)

They're everywhere.

And not the nice kind of cunts, either.  But
the kind that  push your buttons
(because you've got a droopy eye, say
or skin that's a shade darker
than their Uncle Gump thinks is absolutely necessary)
and then they pull a knife on you in the parking lot
because
a knife is a terrible thing to waste;
and after all
it might as well get to work
carving initials into something.  Because it's Saturday night.

Oh, there are cunts galore. 

But not the nice kind.