You called for me? Well here I come.
A Snipewriter’s work is never done.
Especially when you act so badly,
Now death becomes you, slowly, sadly.
Sadly? No, I lie of course,
And it’s too late for your remorse.
Just because you say you’re sorry,
That won’t end this morbid story.
“Sorry” should breath innocence,
Unlike your mouth’s incontinence.
So now you’re here under my gun,
Whaddya say, are we having fun?
Well I am, and that’s all that matters,
Making Rorschach tests with your blood spatters.
Look I see a happy tree,
Swarming with those scary bees,
But in this book the bees are mine,
And oh, they won’t get out of line.
Instead they’ll sting on my command,
Like drawing pictures in the sand,
But instead of sand there’s only flesh,
And the picture’s stung, feral and fresh.
Hm, yes, I bet that smarts,
Do you wish you’d had a heart?
Do you wish you’d acted human,
Enthrall me with your acumen.
Please, tell me, I’d love to know,
Wish you hadn’t sunk so low?
Well whatever, what’s done is done,
And this is something you begun.
But that truth you don’t recall.
It’s my fault. I dropped the ball.
And you’re right, the fault is mine,
This Snipewriter is way out of line,
But of what fault do you now speak?
This situation is quite unique.
You’re being here is your fault alone,
So please spare me your grievous moans.
The fault that rests on my mad head,
Is the simple fact that you’ll be dead.
Well, my friend it’s about that time,
I take that back–you’re no friend of mine,
If you were, you’d be in better shape,
Getting off with just a scrape.
So now it’s time to write you out,
I’ll end this chapter without a doubt
That you’re a character whose charm is lost,
Was your insolence worth this cost?
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