Even though I’ve been helping you and working hard,
you won’t give me a beer after I’ve mowed your yard.
I’m hot, sweaty and dying of thirst.
You’ve done some bad things but this is the worst.
When you asked for my help, I shouldn’t have come here.
You offered me a glass of water but what I want is a beer.
You love your damn beer so much that you won’t even give me one.
I would kick your ass up and down the street if you weren’t my son.
I have something to say and you’d better listen to me.
Don’t ever expect me to mow your yard again for free.
This is a fictional poem.