Savages. A Poem.


Uncivilized, unmotivated. When it’s your birthday they’ll hit you up next day. Belated.

Like a girl, but waited? He found out about it, went in, and they dated.

Got a bill to split and doing the math to leave a tip? He let you fill the line first, waited, then wrote it in closer to zip.

He invites you over to eat bean dip and watch a Netflix film clip. 10 minutes later you knew you should have trusted your gut when you read that roach-clip quality courtship profile authorship.

Too late. Unzip. He’s equipped and got your pink slip now you’re walking out of his place thinking about the roundtrip.

He’s a Savage.

His airline charges for carryon-baggage.

His spirit animal is a vulture finding carrion to scavenge ravage and take advantage of any bird making passage.

He’s a savage.

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