Archive
02/01/10 - (1)
Cunt
How I wish death were just a crotchety old cuckold, You know, a real submissive son-of-a-bitch, Stifled, often, by his perfidious mistress, time,
The one lady in his constantly changing matriarchy Whose fickleness he just can't ever quite predict, Never knowing when she'll manipulate, distract him,
Force him to wait until she makes up his mind, Though she knows that, ultimately, he'll get his way, Despite his frailties, vulnerabilities, Achilles' heel,
His susceptibility to temptations, lust's corruptions, Sadomasochistic molestations of his victims, For the merciless sake of seeing them squirm, writhe.
Death, you unscrupulous motherfucker, cocksucker! What I wouldn't give to be that ballsy, ball-busting cunt, So I could cut off your nuts, your dick, mince them,
Pluck your eyeballs, tongue, hardened heart, Pull out your arteries, veins, capillaries, one by one, Until you'd know what you really feel like.
02/01/10 - (1)
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