Sonnet CXLVI

my hatred boiled in a silver tray,
too haughty to be served to that android,
that vile villain, more than words can say,
arousing anger when I am annoyed,
my burning hate becomes more strong each day,
until the thought of crude revenge was joy –
fulfilling joy in every single way,
a satisfying prize that never cloys!

i’ll take your hair and rip it from your head
i’ll tear your precious limbs from your poor corpse
i’ll shred your entrails, throw them on the floor
i’ll burn your skin with acids ‘til it’s red
i’ll hope you’re still alive because of course
i’d rather you to suffer so much more!