Pork Rinds
I heard him squeal in ecstasy;
I saw his nostrils flare
As he dismembered part of me
While spitting out my hair.
The stench of dead was lingering
Among the corpses hung.
The bodies he kept fingering
Were licked by his foul tongue.
I squirmed to try and loose the knot,
But sadly, no avail.
Around me in the hazing rot,
I knew that I would fail.
“The Butcher of the Frigidaire”
Had come to claim my flesh.
He tapped me simply hanging there
Within his hemp made mesh.
“A tasty lad, I bet, indeed!
A meal to fill my gut.”
But by that time, he made me bleed
And carved me from my butt.
“Not Boston, eh?” he tries to jest
As he dipped in baste.
“These pork rinds simply are the best …
You want to have a taste?”
Stitched Smile Publications 