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Sometimes I think you're my friend. Sometimes I think I'm your dog.
You feed me - I can feed myself, I've done nothing else these thirty years; don't matter if it walks in the door or if it's crawling in the dust and shit, I can find a use for it. Did you think I've stayed alive this long by being stupid? - Only with you around I can eat more often, and there's nothing like hunger to put you in a bad mood, you know.
Sometimes while we eat, I'll look over at your plate and I try to think of a way I can get that, too. You would be my best friend, then. But you look at me and I'd swear you see what I was thinking. Damn this honest face of mine, it betrays me every day.
"This is good, eh? I've had many years to learn how to cook. We've gone hungry so long now, you best enjoy it." It was good, but there's so little of it. And you eat so damn slow. I can't sit here and stare at you all day - come on! Come on, before I eat my saddle, or yours!
Sometimes I look away while you scrape up the last few beans. I cross my legs, wipe my boot clean with my sleeve - dust on the sleeve or food scraps on my boots, what does it matter? There's dirt everywhere. Then the other boot. The sole's getting loose; I've got to get me another pair. What am I doing, sitting here trying to make it out like I'm not hungry when you can see --
"You're still hungry?" And you stick your plate into my hands. Just a few crumbs, a bean or two, but I try not to look grateful.
You bastard.