O! Food, how you rot!
The smell of you is icky
and quite powerful.
Ah, how I recall
the days of yore when people
would clean up their mess.
But, alas, those days
have passed us by, giving
way to so much yuck.
Now I have no choice.
I wax wroth; punishment must
be meted out, fools.
You have toyed with death.
I will rip out your wriggling
spleens, my doomed friends.
Yea, though I enjoy
your company there is
a price to be paid.
Your bones will be mine
when I murder you awfully
as retribution, natch.
*sigh* Haiku can only distract me for so long. Either I'll turn to sonnet now, or seek distracting porn.
