Loathed with gnashing hate my exasperating poems
As if created bespoke for their specific knowing.
Hate-fashioned totems lashing back at a total failure’s fate,
Every evasive facet eight times worked to exert
Maximum psychic damage on searchers.
Four going down, so next gets the debt;
Hammydown schoolgown, neck already stretched.
Shoulder chipped like beat up delf end of shift.
“Laughing at the shit jokes he tells.
Very full of himself, and full on.”
“Ah, lad, what are you on? He’s dead on!”
Me, smoking, one room beyond.
Alchemisland 
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