Every time we go to a costume party, you insist that we go as a horse.
If I was your wife, I'd get a divorce.
I'm beginning to question whether or not you're my friend.
When we wear the costume, you insist that I be in the end.
I'm a man of great substance and class.
I'm getting tired of being the horse's ass.
It's not right that I always have to be in the back.
If you fart in my face again, I'll give you a smack.
People point at us and laugh, and you think we're cute!
You deserve an ass kicking for making me the horse's patoot.
(This is a fictional poem.)