Son of a green wind.
Bitch queen of the toilet bowl,
Your gonads are like fantastic maracas.
You smell of Kurdistan
And your intellect is somewhere between medieval
And a cabbage
Stalk
That has been left to populate
A regimental latrine.
Mix that with your eyelids!
Fetid parachutes of flesh
Adorn your scrofulous physique.
Your body has atrophied. You must
Spend your days copulating
With rancid potatoes.
On top of that I don’t like you
Much.
Your writing is malformed and
Your ideas regarding political economy
Are far-fetched. Ha!
I know that your daughter-in-law fears
To purchase firm carrots.
A window cleaner could hardly
Have more transparent intentions than you.
Owing to the weakness of your bowels
Diarrhea remains a permanent possibility.
Consort
Of gangrenous hags,
Your plectrum wilts
Under the demands of true genius.
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