I'd rather die than listen to your poetry. **** pellets of perfection, Forget rhyme, rhythm or talent, Leave that **** for the poets, The saps and the *******. Don't start with that alliteration. No pantooms or odes. I'd rather place my head on the chopping block. I'd rather watch blood with such high viscosity, That it flails and leaps toward the opened mouth, Pleading "no more! No more!"