Sir, illusion of the kings;
Trigger of the synapse that brings
The grief to all who have collided
With my being.

You,
A hunter,
Who vows to bite the jugular
But misses.

Thing that haunts yet is unbelieving
In the ghosts; dreadful
Mistaken one, you have not the hold
To bind me.

You say,
Your reason?
I have none. This confounds you so.
You, that which plucks the string
To expect the note receives a howling
From an abode.

I, do as I do,
To simply (yes) to spite you insomuch.

Once, I wondered,
Why I am this way. Then
I watched you peel a grape and I
Understood how and why the
Nobles dine on wine.

You,
Sleight of hand,
so unaware and frightened.

I’ll drink you until
The days end, and then spit you
Back up.

Everything you attempt,
I’ll cut, and do tuck away into me.

Kick your bucket,
And I’ll whisper,
You haven’t my permission
to die, not yet.

You, poor fool
Who is determined
To stop the world, be sure;

I’ll always come round to
Kick the feet from under you.

That is certain.