What's the Point

What’s the point,

hot days of shouting,

and drinking and shouting

ranting around, foaming in the mouth

chipping my teeth

trying to open another bottle of beer

and then calling you a nasty whore

‘whore, whore, whore,’

cheap whore,

the only thing that’s left of you

is your furry, pink slippers under the bed,

a loose panty in a drawer and your smell

mixed with sweat on the bedsheet ,

and there’s the cat

she was yours, now she is mine

whimpering at my feet

asking for food and mercy and warmth,

she can have them all, even sleep on my bed

and sit on the kitchen slab

staring at me

‘What’s the point ?’ I tell her,

blame it on the days, the uselessness,

the sex, the washing machine,

dope, cheese spread, toothpicks

blame It on anything you want to

for all you know

I never ever cared anyway