Sam Kinison

Styrofoam Plates

Sam Kinison


There's a Saltwater Film 
On the Jar of Your Ashes. 
I Threw Them to Sea, 
But a Gust Blew Them Backwards. 
And the Sting in My Eyes, 
That You Then Inflicted 
Was Par For the Course 
Just As When You Were Living. 

It's no Stretch to Say 
You Were Not Quite a Father, 
But the Donor of Seeds 
To a Poor, Single Mother 
That Would Raise Us Alone. 
We Never Saw the Money. 
That Went Down Your Throat 
Through the Hole in Your Belly. 

Thirteen Years Old 
In the Suburbs of Denver, 
Standing in Line 
For Thanksgiving Dinner 
At the Catholic Church, 
The Servers Wore Crosses 
To Shield From the Sufferance 
Plaguing the Others. 

Styrofoam Plates, 
Cafeteria Tables, 
Charity Reeks 
Of Cheap Wine and Pity. 
I'm Thinking of You. 
I do Every Year When We 
Count All Our Blessings 
And Wonder What We're Doing Here. 

You're a Disgrace to the Concept of Family. 
The Priest Won't Divulge That Fact in His Homily. 
I'll Stand Up and Scream If the Mourning Remain Quiet. 
You Can Deck Out a Lie in a Suit, But I Won't Buy It. 
I Won't Join in the Presession That's Speaking Their Piece, 
Using Five-dollar Words While Praising His Integrity. 
Just 'cause He's Gone, It Dosen't Change the Fact 
He Was a Bastard in Life, Thus a Bastard in Death (Yeah).