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