String him up.

I brought my own beer.

A six-pack,

six neatly arranged

glass bottles:

all mine.

As I drank each

I kept count:

1. 2… 4…

Four?

When did I drink #3?

5…

wait, where’s #6?

Then I see him,

holding #6.

Some fucker drinking my beer.

I said,

“That’s my beer you’re drinking!”

“Oh,”

he replied, unconcerned.

I left, and bought another six-pack,

(two-hours left in the evening, after all)

and he drank one of those too!

There are moments

when immediate execution

seems legitimate

and proper.

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