By the everyday bench, he—above all, is sinister.
Look yonder, at his warped entry hole,
aloft his ghoul-like chin.
Mercy! The bread cried.
That sad naked eyes gazing upon his feast,
Until the dry surface denied
his tongue, gliding through utmost dexterity,
And eventually died.
The blood is butter,
The tongue is hell.
And the crust could only tell
What is beyond nothing before reverie.
The mush, the crush, a touch of reverie.
He's but a entitlement of his attonements.
He’s the lyrical empirical, reaper of meals,
That is only eaten by men,
by women, by child.
Upon fixation, he's near but a separation
of humanity and bestiality.
An offspring of all vices,
A reaper of reverie.
What need of you to ponder
more in the face of a Monster?