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Brackish were the words you salted with spite,
Your compliments come with a backwards bite.
No water here from this your blackened well:
Your goblet contains but the dregs of hell.
Your razor smiles but a show of teeth,
A gauzy guise with sneering underneath.
You spineless, soulless, hell-bent crook!
You’re rotting maggot-meat strung on a hook.
Go back to the abyss from whence you came,
Where not even a grave should mark your name.

*Author’s note: Least you think all I write is fluffy bunnies of happiness…here’s something with a little more fight and a little less lovey-dovey, “I love you oh so huggy, buggy bunch”.  Yeah, it’s kind of the opposite of that, actually.

And, on a side note, I’m reading Stephen Fry’s The Ode Less Travelled and about lost my mind trying to work out the iambic pentameter.  Here’s me doing my homework.  And no, this poem is not my feelings for Stephen Fry for making me do Exercise #2 in his fabulous book.  I think he’s wonderful; the person I wrote this for…not so much!