Backpfeifengesicht, more than a slap on the wrist,
That bastard’s face deserves a fist through it;
Legitimately, efficiently, he’s rubbed on a nerve
Until it was threadbare, treaded and worn.
Like ravens love corn, he’s revelled in squawking,
Digging a trench with all of his talking,
Dead walker has wandered well off of the trail,
Now a foot to his ass will render him paled.
Entrails could very well be brought to the surface,
Cut out for reroute by world’s worst brain surgeon,
Emerging from membrane profaned by the floor,
By warren of wardens wrestling woefully.