Noose (Remove filter)
Noose
How I long to be a noose
Not the bereaved body alone and loose
Decaying in the autumn air
Rotting the flesh from the bones
But the rope end itself
Clutching at the neck of this criminal cunt
Guilty of robbing a piece of gold
Or for killing tarts
The sense of authority and punishment
Would be grand for me
People would cower at the thought
Of ...
Monday 13th September 2010 9:55 pm
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