About the world in which I live;
But cannot help my eccentricity
Of writing my rhymes with a shiv.
I’d slit the throats of politicians,
And preachers with their expositions
Of what it’s like to live in hell
Without a clue that’s where we dwell.
If rhyming verse proves insufficient
Especially in satire’s form
Then we will have to take by storm
These clods who mostly prove deficient;
Or else they’re lying. Come what may
We’ll slit their throats on Judgment Day.