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Sickdom
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Sycamore Smith
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1
The murderess undresses her late night victim
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He's got a fine physique, that's why she picked him
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She takes a swig of port then sits
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Upon his rigor mortised bits till dawn
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She's the sickest lass in all of Sickdom
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Sickdom is a realm
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Where saintly souls are overwhelmed,
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Their grace erased and then replaced with bas depravity
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Its denizens are menacing, yet fill you full of calm
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By shoving opiated balm up in your cavity...
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The murderess confesses to the handsome priest
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But he doesn't hear a word, as he's deceased
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She tears his frock & socks off and
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Prepares to get her rocks off by smearing him
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In the extremely unctuous gunk with which she's greased
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The murderess caresses he machete
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And curls up on a deep magenta settee
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The scent of fetid gent is strong and heady
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As she slips out of her pinkish patchwork teddy
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The murderess's tresses grow gray and thin
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And then the ravages of time do her in
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She punts across the Styx to dwell
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But cannot get her kicks so well in Hades,
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Where cavorting with the dead is not a sin, rickety-tin,
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How she longs to live in Sickdom once again...
Congratulations, You Survived Your Suici...
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