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Poem

Without morale
The words of the monster are as shaky 
Unstable, like the north winds


The demons and imagined stories they tell 
Haunt and reek 
Through their pores and tacky suits

Like a hooker, 
They are paid to please, persuade
Wine and dining with other dirty animals

While they are busy swallowing the last of their morale
They line their wallets 
With the latest lie, the latest crime

Worse than the act itself
They are the legal accomplinces
Of rapists murders con artists

While their souls melt away in their dirty coffins 
Up in the high rises in the shiny offices in downtown
The pit of hell grows deeper 

Even the devil himself
With his pitchfork of painful pleasure
Wouldn't want to dirty the prongs

Like a rotting piece of dog poop
On the street corner
They absorb the filth around them

Unlike the supple soil of a garden
A colorful, flourishing nursery
Growing life, bringing joy and beauty, to the senses

These eyesores, like dog vomit, sit in the courts
Little annoying flies- the followers, magnets of illusions- circle around these pieces of poop
As their stench grows and reeks of havoc and lies

They wear Bullsheit as their cheap body spray,
A pathetic excuse 
A waste of breath

Not even worthy as the shadow of Satan's tail
In the inferno of the lawless
There are no shadows

Like their absent hearts
The material of their soul 
Is woven with pure darkness




viva la Shakespeare

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