Did they not chook me with cacti
and fill me with bilious waste – those
whose scrota should be guests to
Did they not claw me with callous talons
and grip my vicious veins – those
whose hands will remain guests
to rheumatoid rust?
Did they not mock my wailings
and cause a gnashing – those
whose nights will witness
harmonies of terror and bitterness?
Did they not defile my thighs
and maul my breasts – those
whose paths will forever
quake with anguish?
Did they not tear me apart
and watch me suffocate – those
who should be bobittised with blunt scalpels?
Some pricks should be snacks for hungry hyenas.