by Nick Gisburne
A ceaseless, savage appetite for fear
Compels her to the shadows of the streets
The pawn, the prey, the prize, is always clear
The racing of the heart, its final beats
She targets, always, brash, conceited types
Executives who live to get their way
For every condescending smile she wipes
The grovelling, the weeping, makes her day
Deplorable, delicious, fuel, food
Disabled with the pressure of her thumbs
Though blood is not for what they are pursued
She swallows as the sacrifice succumbs
For every foul unfortunate who pleads
The terror is a feast on which she feeds
