F*ck You, I’m from Kansas


This here’s a little rant I came up with after hearing people in England complain about two to three inches of snow.

Don’t forget to order a custom poem from Poetry To Go!

FUCK YOU, I’M FROM KANSAS

Two inches of snow in Norwich and this city shuts down.

“There just isn’t enough grit!”

Fuck You, I’m from Kansas

Where grit comes from the inside

Where blizzards bury children in as little as eight minutes

And you just deal with it.

Socialized health care?

Fuck You, I’m from Kansas

If you get cut, you die.  Simple as that.

Sure, we’ll pray for ya’ll, but that’s about it.

We buried pa in a field by the Kaw River after the rustlers came,

And ma died while trying to birth that calf, kicked in the head to death,

Little sister was bitten fifty-two times by a rattlesnake before she managed to bite off it’s head, and we couldn’t afford the antidote cause the cattle died of blight.

The poison still courses through her veins today.  Makes her mean.

And when the well ran dry, fifteen kids tripped and fell into it

Cute little blonde-haired blue-eyed kids,

Like the kind you save in movies

Movies that are never set in Kansas

And as they fell to their tiny deaths

We just watched.

Health and Safety?

Fuck You, I’m from Kansas

I went to school in a class of four hundred

Only eight of us are still alive

We couldn’t find Billy Ray after that twister got him.

He’s probably somewhere in Missouri

Or Ohio

Or maybe Iowa.

Or maybe bits of him in all three.

Did we miss him, yup,

But Fuck You, I’m from Kansas

It’s just part of God’s plan

We just got color in ’94, before that, everything was black and white

Except the people, they were just white.

I’m not racist, Fuck You, I’m from Kansas.

When the Indians come

You’ve got to circle the wagons to survive

I learned to dodge arrows from an early age

In the grim light of the campfire and smoke signals.

The smoke signals crying out “Get the fuck outta Kansas.”

Because Kansas was named after the Kansa Indians.

Before we shot them.

Fuck you, Indians, this is our Kansas.

Nineteen of my friends died of dysentery,

Cholera got the other six

My Facebook page reads like the book of the dead

The dead of Kansas.

I cried once, when I was two, and pa punched me in the face

Fuck you, son.  We don’t cry.  Not in Kansas.

Nothing tastes better in Kansas than pain.

We like our women to have teeth

But it doesn’t always work out that way

You don’t always get what you want in Kansas.

In the Kansas winter people freeze to death, and in the summer they die of heat stroke

The spring brings tornadoes which kill thousands and destroy our livelihood and our precious trailer homes.

Fall’s cool, though, in Kansas, fall’s cool.

If you don’t drink a case and a half of Pabst Blue Ribbon a day

Fuck you, get out of Kansas.

If you don’t stop at the titty bar along the highway

Fuck you, get out of Kansas.

You can’t be queer in Kansas, or that’s a shootin’.

Our capital, Topeka, is built of sticks and mud.

We added a brick once, and the whole thing fell over.

Forty thousand people died.

So we just started again.

Fuck you, I’m from Kansas.

I graduated at the top of my class in Kansas because I went to the library and read the book.

Now I’m governor.  Governor of fucking Kansas.

So when the snow comes next, and ya’ll English are trying to push your faggoty French cars out your ever-so-slightly frosted over roads, don’t come whining to me.

I’ve seen it all.  On the cold, cold prairie.

Fuck you, I’m from Kansas.

 

Don’t forget to order your own custom poetry from Poetry to Go!

5 Comments

Filed under Poemetry

5 responses to “F*ck You, I’m from Kansas

  1. mitzibel

    Oh my, yes. A thousand times, yes.

  2. Amen. I’m from Kansas too.

  3. Frank

    Hooray. Genius.

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