This is a cover of the poem "slim killers" by Charles Bukowski from the book Mockingbird Wish Me Luck.
four motherfuckers knock at my door
and I open it
I'm drunk and they're massive.
"Bunch of slim killers," I say.
they stroll in with arrogance,
demanding a ride
to ask for one.
we pile in,
all of us stinky drunk.
"I write too," exclaims one of the faces.
"I write poetry, like you."
His moment of vulnerability
attempts to mask his vile indecision,
his stench of desired acceptance.
back at my place I remain king.
one by one they pass out
like terrified, clever possums.
mixed with inflated egos
lead to disappointing self-realizations,
involving drink intake
when they awake to a blinding
and cruel hangover,
one sure to be nursed with sympathy,
they vomit in turn
and leave with whatever dignity
they're able to muster.
as fans of my work,
I feel indifferent.