The Whiskey Taster’s Flavor Guide

Sour Grape

It's my prerogative
to be pejorative.
Crass, grumpy,
and boorish to boot.
Like me, or despise me.
I don't really care.
I'll die.
None will cry.
My coffers they'll loot.
Take what they wish.
Every last dish.
Until there's nothing left, 
but the bones.
Copyright © | Year Posted 2019

Poem

Post Comments

Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.

Please Login to post a comment

Be the first to comment on this poem. Encourage this poet.

Get a Premium Membership
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a Premium Membership.
The Whiskey Taster’s Flavor Guide
Book: Diverse Voices: The Poetry of Human Rights and the Pursuit of Peace