This is not a rap,
The rotisserie my dog and I ate
Did not taste like wood
And my basement will be a little less
Of a hotel, motel Holiday Inn tomorrow
When I take a bed
To my son.

I don’t mind,
He’s okay for a recently legal,
Guitar shredding, college kid,
But the truth is,
I’m tired of moving this bed.
First upstairs, then the loft,
Eventually hitting the basement
Before being sent to its doom
In a college apartment.

Be well, bed.
You’ve served us well.