The poet's body hangs
Skewered as roast meat,
Creative juices dripping
Feeding pun-fueled fire.

What a quest to seek
Exulted laudations.
Did you not realise
I found the laureate
Years back.
She spins on that spit, eternal
Pirouettes to celebrate
Her vain prize.

Ignorant child, dull, dull.
Shame witch, wet-cheeked.
Lust pocked miscreant.
Unrepentant.
Mouthy little shit.
Why feign humility.
I was always the greatest.
This is my trophy.

The same as the drippings
Of that overcooked flesh
I will rend emotion
From your unwilling being.

Do my milken overtures
Clench your muscles in
Frustrated ire or glad mirth.
Good.
My foods have passed your lips,
My portraits bore your sights,
My words hang in your minds.
My work is part of you.

If this strikes you as
Amusing and pleasing, then
Venerate me.
If you prefer me gone,
I am hung for carving, so
Decapitate me.
Mount my head.
I am your trophy.

I am art
Fine
In every way.

Penned by my hand on the 3rd of Miraman, in the year 867 AF.