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...