To snigger, to smirk

to punch him

down to the dirt

To chuckle, to grin

to beat, stamp,

kick in

To giggle, with glee

the bones now

crunching and snapped

So happy you are

you sadistic, drunk pack

To mock, and belittle

just a couple more kicks

Some spit on the face

then you’re off

no disgrace

The laughter rings loud

as you run through

the street

Another nameless slaughter

to add to your sheet

Kicked to death

but murder it isn’t

Not enough satisfaction

to see you imprisoned..

Weeeeewooooo-weeeeeeeeeeewoooooooo

Beeeep Beeeeep Beeeeeeep

It’s ten past three on a cool December night.

A silent night it is not.

My neighbours over protective alarm

is carolling non-stop.

He’s never had anything stolen

from it. A fact of which he’s proud.

It does get hit with bricks a lot though.

Not just because its loud.

It’s more the choice of carol.

That seems to get peoples goat.

That and the hours he picks

to belt them out on the road.

We Three Kings of Orient Are

seems to be a popular choice.

At least that’s what I hear

(although my pillow blocks out the voice).

The time to rise comes all too soon.

As I pick up another brick.

The walk downstairs is a familiar one.

This time it’ll do the trick.

I love the stars during these

crisp winter nights.

Reflections on the glass

remind me of Christmas tree lights.

The brick bounces off the

windscreen and installs another crack.

But the carols keep on coming.

In fact, I think I changed the track.

The brick is still whole

so I’ll have another go.

Joy to the World came abruptly to an end

as I smashed out the driver side window.

The spirit of Christmas is a beautiful thing.

A carolling car that just wants to sing.

But given the choice between going insane.

Or bricking a car and ending my pain.

The Christmas car will surely come off worse.

Not least because I abhor its traditional choice of verse.

Shelf eating zombies hunt souls.

The den of the world is nigh.

I must leave, evacuate,

run desperately for my file.

Darkness encroaches,

I have little mite.

Thankfully, the zombies

are rubbish in daylight.

The inevitable must come.

What use is it to flee?

My skin crawls with fear.

Won’t somebody vase me?

The howling undead,

smug retools of blood.

Spreading insanity,

unleashing the flood.

A flood of hated,

destruction and hate.

I run shrieking and flailing

towards hells open gate.

I shall end this won,

die at my own hands.

Sod the wicked undead,

and their karts raving plans.