That squirrel ate my hosstiss—every leaf and every stem I swear I'm gonna stop him, but he does it all again The spiders own my whole damn house, spinning webs everywhere I kill one and knock its web down—by morning two are there

The NFL refs get worse each week, no matter where they stand They miss the call right in their face, then need replay to understand Politics is crooked—both sides are filled with fools But the other party's always worse—that's how we make the rules

The more I work upon my swing, the worse I hit the ball I fix one thing and break three more, then blame the clubs for all The dryer keeps on shrinking every shirt and pair of pants It couldn't be my belly—hell, those clothes don't stand a chance

I love the sun till evening when it blinds me from the west Then I'm squinting through the windshield, yelling, "Give it a damn rest!" The neighbor never cuts his grass till I sit down to chill Then he fires up that mower like he's grinding at a mill

My wife says she don't want to talk—I'm smart enough to know That means a full report is coming, and there's nowhere I can go She tells me how I piss her off, with evidence to spare I nod my head and take it while I'm bitching in my chair