Squander in your squalor, piggy,
You cook with the very lard from your back.
Dragging along some wish bones,
And your own **** in a sack.
You batter flies that gather round you,
Eat the maggots off your skin,
Peel off your putrid garments,
Spread your legs, and let them in.
Engorged and fatly belching,
Like a quivering tic on a vein.
I’d like to impale you with a splintered stick,
And twirl you over a flame.