If I could till the end of time
Entomb, torment and torture you,
Bury your head in mire and slime,
Then surely that is what I’d do.
But now you lie in yonder stain
And I cannot inflict these hurts
Upon your corpse and cause you pain
Such as would be your just desserts.
So instead, I spit on your grave.
If I’d known then what I know now,
I’d not have been denied by greed,
I would have kept my sacred vow
And smashed your bones and made you bleed.
I would have twisted off your head
With my bare hands and, filled with mirth,
Laughed as at my feet you dropped dead
Despairing o’er your day of birth.
But I didn’t, so I spit on your grave.
If I could give you your life back,
Your Resurrection I would be,
I’d twist your spine upon the rack
And burn your flesh eternally.
Alas, I can’t, for Science yet
Holds Death’s sweet secrets back from me,
All I can do is feel regret
And pray the Devil hears my plea.
So, for the moment, I spit on your grave.
I’m a nice guy, really. But some people...
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