I hate the demon inside,
the awful yellowing breathe,
skin as rugged as a rugby footy
the opposite kind of anything snooty

The maps he draws of our escape,
the clays of demons he makes
A target we need to annihilate
A child whose imagery creates.

I refuse to **** a child,
and put forward
I'll **** you in the in the wild,
He's better off dead.

Turn him to our side of living
and see his art of make-believing
destroying aliens  of green blood
before they fall in simple mud.

Green makes something new,
Burnt to ash as a break-thru
Red is fire as the scorpions
I was never the scrap heap feed.