You need to die. <br /> <br />Eat the grey sludge <br />on the roadside and <br />wash it down with drano. <br /> <br />Your pathetic meat face <br />needs tenderizer and your <br />puffy lips that serve as <br />modulators for the sounds <br />that pass for words that shite <br />from your pie hole could look <br />so much prettier if only they <br />were cracked and bloodied. <br /> <br />I want to stamp all your reports <br />with the imprint of your face. <br /> <br />The command you demand is <br />a worthless turtle flipped on <br />a burning beach just outside <br />the reach of the incoming tide. <br /> <br />If only you could die, but instead <br />you smell up any meeting you <br />attend with your roasting <br />turtle shell. <br /> <br />Hand me the mallet.<br /><br />John Kipling Lewis<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/jen/
