Will you Break his Spine,
Or Crush his Skull?
In this most magickal,
resplendent Cull?
Chop off his arms,
or Bleed his legs?
A Simple Cap to
Send him to bed(s)?
But 'What...' I say,
'What of his skill?
His sharpened blade,
his fencing "quill"?
I hear he stalks children
Through parlours grey,
Scaring the night awake
to entice the day.
Dressed in mean fedora
trenchcoat to his feet
a heavy duty sports bag,
he stays yet still discreet.'
Now, how to approach him?
You, who dare so high
You, who still do tremble
When caught afront his eye.
Perhaps from behind!
Sneak up all Big-Cat-like!
But a glass-jar'd mind
Would catch you in the light
that shimmers in his bell
Three-Sixty-Full-Round-Sight!
And front on now?
Not a fucking chance!
Against such a man and
His bullet-sabre dance!
So from above?
A sneaky-spider be!
For the heavens behold
His eery reverie,
His thoughts and words
Grown up high on Mont Olympe,
They see like gods,
They'd never miss a shrimp
from miles away,
which is to say
He's got Telepathic-Think!
All directions covered
except for down below.
But as we've prediscovered
it's naught down there but woe.
His feet are big!
They're made rough-sharp!
Stomp-crush-kill and maim
upon our hitman's art...
So where do we stand,
we daring few,
Who'd kill a man
to purchase a view
Of the Holy, the Magickal,
the Above and Beyond?
Just nuke the fucker and get done with it. |
