I’ll jingle a fistful of voodoo bones
In your smarmy mother’s Christian tea-morning zealot face.

I’ll cut your long suffering father from the bondage
Of his red-faced wife’s misplaced tyrant ambitions.

I’ll marry your brother to the air head divorcee
He set his shrivelled little second-hand-car-salesman heart on.

But what shall I do with
you?

I could flick your worthless little will
Three times trembling round the board.

I could tread the masquerade called wit
Into the histrionic so-called dirt.

I could rip out the stuffing of all your grand and clichéd
Blandishment. And tell you all the time you gushed you bored me.

I could have you.
I could have you anytime.
I could have you anytime if I liked.

But I’m far too magnanimous for that.
Instead, old friend, I’ll just vilify you from the comfort of my own
Twisted little mind.