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Because I look like Colonel Sanders, people ask me for the secret recipe.
When I tell them that I don't have it, they always get very angry at me.
These dumbasses don't even know that the Colonel has been dead for thirty-five years.
Some people get violent when I say I can't help them, I've learned the meaning of fear.

Everybody asks me to tell them what the eleven herbs and spices are.
One guy tried to run over me with his truck, that was going way too far.
Another guy threatened to take his chicken and cram its head up my butt.
That was the last damn straw, I kicked the ass of that Kentucky Fried Idiot.

I was arrested for assault and the judge offered to go easy on me.
He said he'd suspend my sentence if I gave him the secret recipe.
I told him that I'm not the Colonel and he sentenced me to ten months in jail because he was pissed.
When I get out, I'm going to dye my hair and shave my beard because I can't take anymore of this.

(This is a fictional poem)

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