I should squash you
like the bug you are. To live
in spite of my foot smashing,
fly swatting, raid
drenching extermination
is remarkable. But, your reprieve
shall be short-lived.
Beware, the caverns of leather.
They stamp a stencil right over you
leaving the toe prints on your back.
These army supply boots were made
for stomping on human pests.
My shower cleanses the world
of vile rodents. But,
you exist. The gas was
not enough. You still
crawl on your belly.
My gestapo will crush you
like sour grapes who flourish
in the mist of homes where bodies
line the floor as pillow
cushions to my feat.
No one escapes my camp
motel and lives. It is
a fortress with spiked-metal
spider webs along
the borders, two inches
thick of polyurethane
and a moat of severed limbs
clinking to the bludgeon walls.
I will search first,
second, and the third
for the skull cap dropping,
kosher-eating maggot
who infests my nation.
I feel the bleeding sting
of a pheasant's tail burying
its poison nectar like the surprise
visit of an unwelcome
relative.
It lives beyond
my blitzkrieg and continues
while my eyes grow weary
and fade to black as the world
grows one smaller.
