Tag Archives: Henrik Ibsen

I Know a Man

He is a trouser leech,
a dirty fuck,
a moist cuntrag gussied up
in strips of man flesh,
a collection of foul stenches
orbiting a lugubrious black heart,
a pus cage, a sad thing,
more mousse than man,
more grease than mousse,
and more rat piss than grease
on even his bathing days,
which are few.

He is a prancing pink dirigible,
incapable of intelligent speech;
I have often enjoyed more
engaging conversation
with a string of wet farts.

He does mankind
a genuine disservice
by stealing air
from thieves, pimps,
and rapists,
who are less vile.

I do not like this man.