by Nick Gisburne
I wonder, dear demonic Mum and Dad,
Why every time you scribble me a note
The vellum smells of something Satan had
To wipe the sweat of sinners from his scrote?
I know I seem so deviant to you,
The office job, the absence of a tail,
But maiming martyrs isn’t what I do.
I’m just a modern, mediocre male.
In other news, I’ve started up a cult.
Is fifty thousand followers enough?
Tomorrow, every gullible adult
Will drink a poison potion. Lethal stuff.
I thought I’d better say, before I die,
I’ll see you soon, and that’s the reason why.
