Son’a’Bitch — An Allegorical Tale

I stood behind a guy in line for a greasy cheeseburger at the County Fair
His skin was thickened leather, and his voice, a remainder of countless cigarettes.
Everything he talked about was a son’a’bitch.
This was a son’a’bitch. That was a son’a’bitch.
He ordered his cheeseburger, and now he was waiting for the son’a’bitch.
I wondered how many times you would have to use a curse
Before it becomes passé to the point of common usage.
I asked him, and he looked back at me, his eyes moving from my shoes to the top of my head.
Son’a’bitch, was all he said.

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