The Bite Back Rant Poem by Mark Heathcote

The day you breathe an apology
Defiantly shall be your last
As a prehistoric solidified man
And what gives you the right?
Even to think you can speak to me
And treat me that way,
So you climb into bed as always
Ruffling the sheets like its sun-dried hay
But babe you aren't going there
This isn't a ballot voting box…
For none of the loving above party
And I won't be a part of that
Empty holding the baby nonsense
So you might as well have the pox
Cause there are no prizes
For being a lord and masters dog,
So take the couch you're good for nothing
Foul-mouthed unapologetic slouch.