It ain't easy being -- "green?" -- no, dumbass,
a serial killer. Guts, gore and grass,
no detergent can erase all these stains.
"That sounds like a cry for --" your fucking brains
will splatter red if you finish that line.
Right, time to sharpen this, an edge so fine
for slashing, spilling intestinal tract.
Try, hide; epic fail and that's a fact.
Shh! Listen! Mumbling psychoses, my friends,
demand that hands, feet, sweet meats, tips and ends
become the mmm yummy in marrow soup --
but guzzle 'fore that creepy skin of goop
droops stringy off your spoon. "Rambling bullshit
is your trade, our own Braggadocchio --"
Great, now the rhyme is broken. "Socio-
economic state, too, yours, wasn't it?"
Don't change the subject! I'm a bad mofo.
"Who only wants love." I've scary mojo
something fierce. "But you'd rather be tame as
a tabby." Bah! Try this satanic jazz:
Michael? Amateur eliminator!
I'm the real prestidigitator.
Freddy? Just one more low rent gardener!
Moi? High class artiste, penthouse murderer.
"Yet, a basement full of bodies in rot --"
sigh, cannibal stew is all that I've got
to show for seasons of prowling alone --
"don't forget, silent mounds of human bone."
Sniff. Enough of this Halloween disguise.
Guess I'll watch the game, melonball some eyes.