by Nick Gisburne
The magic kingdom crumbles. What a shame
A wreath of deadly nightshade should suffice
A tragedy, for which I take the blame
My tractor squashed their pretty palace. Twice
The fairy folk are homeless. Do I care?
Perhaps these words of wisdom will explain:
That lettuce-licking horde of wings and hair
Means less to me than pissing in the rain
I welcome the destruction of their world
And raise the middle finger of disgust
By all the turds my rectum ever curled
I dance at their demise, because I must
The vermin who forever hold my scorn
Will wish their tiny tribe was never born
