by Nick Gisburne
I see the hundreds, thousands, of the line
And feel no urge, no need, to find the front
But let me toast your welcome death, with wine
And speak the word upon your headstone: cunt
From what was bright, you scratched away the shine
Whoever needed comfort, you were blunt
For those without direction, every sign
Was broken by a beast, a brute, a cunt
You took away the future that was mine
Another slave, a victim of the hunt
But now, before your maker, the divine
Your soul will burn eternally, you cunt
This funeral, the farce, the show, the stunt
Is how we join in hate, for you, a cunt
