I will get straight to the point, shoving past year after year after year, count them dear, sick puppy torn from the pack blood smeared you culled me from the herd and made me your stuffed meal your worse than zeal your mascot
When I was twelve years old you bent me into a comma
When I was twelve and one quarter you bent me into a fist, a fetal position you could not resist
The love of a child when I was twelve and a half I fought back but lucky you no mother love was listening
The anatomy of a child
Who's the hunter now?
Not you, nearly seventy years old, ***** hippie with one dry pointed finger (you know which one)