Pricks

By Mike Emil

 

Pricks

Even in this cold weather

They taunt me

They are all around

Sticking out

To rip at me, to tear at me, slander to the touch, to piss me off

Draw my blood

Like crystalline dribbles in the cold

Down my sleeve

They wrestle with me

They are green weasels

Having no business being that color

This time of year

From every angle

Every twist and turn

They strike

From out of the tree branches

Out of the ground

They come at me, the b******s

From all around

Pricks, they are ready for battle

Ready to scratch and scorn

Beat and bite

Abuse

 

Pricks! Pricks, they are!

The pricks thought they bested me

Frig ‘em all!

 

When I returned to their melee

I was charged with hatred

Filled with fire

And a handful of sharpened razor cutters

I clipped and I clipped

And they all fell to the ground

Let them cry let them wheeze

Let them die right where they were found

B*****d pricks, b*****d pricks!

I’ve had enough of them

Growing, winding around

Green, climbing the trees

In a time no longer fit for them

To strange their ways up the trees

B******s! I chopped

B******s! They flopped

B******s pricks, I say

I rent them, keep them at bay

B******s, b******s, b******s!

Pricks, pricks, pricks!

Here I reigned over them

Clip, clip, clip!

All you b*****d pricks!

 

Now where’s my brandy

It’s too damn cold out here

To be screwing around with these pricks anyway!

　

Reviews

[gombeggar]

hmm...sounds like this guy's angry