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Imprecation: For A Bastard, Self-Made Not Born
They tell me you died painfully alone.
Now, underneath this squat and rough-hewn stone,
you rot. But worse than mouldered flesh and bone,
are all your untold evils, still unknown.
Subtle it was, deployed with much precision---
that mix of arrogance, spite, and derision.
Your mouth was like a toilet, and its words
like some horrific demon's fetid turds.
Observant of human psychology,
you tuned your abhorent brutality
to the intensest, menacing degree,
as vital to your soul as its next breath.
Many of your acquaintances can say
where they were (to the very time of day)
when they, with glad astonishment, received
the news and circumstances of your death.
Most, if not all, were comfortably relieved
by that. Not one of them, I know, has grieved.
