Sour Grapes

I’m pinched, not sweet, and ferociously piqued! A stomp of vines, my feet juiced red — and drunk. Embossed my boss — his painted smile. He freaked. Impertinence! I’d put up with his junk! Worked extra hard to please this balding… (squeeze). The constant drip...the bitter pills...my wrath. No girl! No life! To serve this jerk...this sleaze! I’ll pluck this fattened grape. His stink needs bath — An hour long shower walloping...indeed! I’m a great guy - no sense of humor mean. This cream of the crop creep, he has no creed. I’ll hire this donkey’s toot and shoot the scene. But cheer this vat, I cure my awful state. Conceive revenge, sour pittance for my hate. 8/13/2018 Mark Massey’s Sour Grapes Poetry Contest 8th place *Embossed - hunted like an animal, to exhaustion