At the table she sits and plots.

In callused hands she rests her face:

bloated with ego and desire

(and one or two alcoholic jots);

creviced with lines of time

and crimes innumerable.

She lifts the glass, grimaces, and sighs –

again flushed, frustrated by blocked designs.

Chipped, bitten nails drum upon the dirty table –

Must buy a cloth, hide reality from frequent guests…

But, first, how to get this new plan past the fence?

Thin-lipped mouth spews out belch of gas

and words she tells others her language

possesses not (except for under cloak of darkness,

sure her truths cannot be backed up,

or seen her madness).

This creature Satan’s spawn you might describe;

or Beelzebub’s child; or Evil’s spy.

With smiling face she draws them in,

then with row of shark’s teeth gleaming

her claws protracts, relishing spillage of lies;

of blood, tears, and guts.

An eager drool drips down her chin.

How utterly delightful.