What do my memories taste like? There lies on my tongue— An atomic bomb: a purported speck, with no chicken pox skin situated upon such. I spat it out; I wobbled on and on, stomping the microscopic intensity into the sludge. No one sees; how pleasant…
My shoe’s underside slit it— a paper cut broiled to the infinitude degree— Preposterous conundrum! Slam! I fulminate! I screech, the needy baby I am! My guttural heave strews in the wind: deformed limbs on the newer generations, an abysmal thread.
Supposedly bland, but then: a guzzling bleed from you and I gushes on and on; but oh, was it needed! Listen to my writhing! Soak in my curdling roaring!
I am the mafia mastermind, but I plead to guilt! The vandalism cannot be grated, but I will revamp, spot clean, and hunt for a vaccine. I cannot cure a scored scar, but rest assured: I will endeavor to solidify the clot.
It was Halloween night but I had no candy. But I did have an air rifle and it came in handy. Because I had no candy, some punks started vandalizing my house. Just because I shot them with my air rifle, people called me a louse. I pumped the air rifle ten times and shot one of them in the *****. The **** juvenile couldn't walk back to his house, he had to crawl. I put pellets up their ***** so that a valuable lesson would be taught. Before they vandalize another man's house, they will have 2nd thoughts. But the cops came to my house and I was the one who was placed under arrest. Apparently it was illegal when I shot them in their *****, ***** and a girl's left breast. Sadly, shooting the girl was an accident, I shot her as she was walking past. After I got out of jail, her dad paid me a visit and put my arms and legs in casts. There was a valuable lesson that those juvenile delinquents learned. I shoot people who are vandals, that's why none of them have returned.
Let me be the drop of ink On your ivory canvas Mark you at the center Through suction Came your subduction Not a claim against your sovereignty Rather passionate vandalism From a guest stopping by To your milky temple
This morning, I went into your home And hung up all the cobwebs That I had collected. I dumped a bucket of dust All over the floors and kicked it Into the air, making it hard to breathe. I smeared the mud from my shoes All over your brand-new carpet, thinking, "I've done this before, and I wonder If he will still forgive me;" That's when you came walking Through the door with a broom in hand, And open arms for this vandal.