I spit on your grave,
filthy old man,
haggard old knave,
kicking your can
till the end of your days,
drifting through life
on cardboard plays
and hand-me-down strife.
Who are you?
to crack my skull?
to shit on my view
while holding none at all?
to break all my goals
without offering solace
and so leaving my soul
drenched through with your piss?
Get the fuck out,
fuck off from my heart
to sit and pout
on your old art
complaining of incompetent youth.
And still no joy.
Why so uncouth?
So I set on you a ploy
to make you see sense,
to beat out your madness
till the blood red defense
coats the walls in sadness
still, and rivers of blood
slip through the tile-walled walkways
only to break flood
to end your days.
Moses will not part this red sea,
no, you will lie there and stink
till some poor cat takes liking to thee
and rats start from you to drink.
Once more I’ll spit on your grave,
filthy old man,
haggard old knave,
kicking your can,
kicking my nave
till the end of our days.