Brushstroke

Today, the kindergarten wall took a not so great tumble down to a ghastly pile of crap emerging from my personal Hellmouth set up by IT.

The wall mocks me in verse.

First you brush upon me

In hallowed white

But in the most impious way.

Then you burst upon me a slew of stain

From Satan’s personal palette.

This I can tell for some mortals admired

Except those of sane virtuous way.

But more I grieve as this was not

The end of your profanity.

You soon resolved to

Write upon my trampled skin

The names of books of wicked intent

None prophetic or of sacred verse

But of Irishmen and paedophilic mirth.

Irony struck when you wrote of a catch

For now you are caught in the very same.

Either desert me in this deplorable state

And be mocked by the world for incompetence.

Or amend me to a more agreeable sight

And lose your last penny to effort’s might.

Regardless of stance,

Leave your thoughts not to stand.

A week of nine days you have,

Before you’re caught in either catch.

If I feel masochistic enough sometime, I'll upload some pictures.