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You fucking bitch

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A Poem of Love Lost and a Vulgar Display of Vindictive Retribution

May you, at the age of 45,
Contract terminal breast cancer,
And die slowly, in agony,
All alone in a cold dark
Hospital room.

May there be no one there
To hold your hand
And comfort you as
The malignancy clutches
Your rib cage like some
Hideously deformed fist,
Slowly crushing the
Life out of you.

And as you lay there,
Wheasing your last rotten breaths,
You can comfort yourself with
The memory of all of the cocks
You've managed to fuck,
And all of the lies that you've told
To further you in your futile quest.

You had once said that you needed people.
You insisted on calling the people attached
To those cocks "friends".
Yet now you are all alone,
Save for the sadistic nurse
Who tends your I.V. hourly,
And withholds your morphine.

She will escort you out of this world.
She will comfort you on your way out.
Patronizingly whispering in your ringing ear,
"It won't be long now, Deary" and,
"Are you feeling much pain? I'm sorry,
it's not time for your morphine yet."

She will also mourn for you when your
Pain ends with platitudes such as,
"The old bag in bed 12 kicked off
Tonight. God! She shit all over herself
And I had to change my uniform after I
Changed the sheets. Sure hope I don't go
Like that!"

But then at least
Your sad, pointless existence
Will be at an end.
The driving need that
Propelled you from cock to cock
Will finally be satisfied.

A fitting end to one
So shallow and lost.

May bad karma follow you
Like a hungry stray dog
For the rest of your empty,
Miserable life,
You fucking bitch.

Ed

(Postet av Ed Ming på alt.tasteless (1995). Vant selvfølgelig åretss AT-pris i klassen"Poem".

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