Flintstones

I ring the doorbell at the stone’s front door,
a caveman answers with a club.
He’s wearing furry underwear,

a single strap of fur around his neck
holds up the gosh-darned thing.
I tell him I must have the wrong address,

he grunts and slams the stone door shut.
It falls off its gravel hinges,
reveals the old lady inside,

she’s not a looker, the ugly children
huddle next to her, he grunts again
as I hurry down the street of rubble.