I know it's life I should have spared,
but I knew it could not have cared
for hygiene in my home.
I'm not inclined to squash a spider,
it bungeed in my glass of cider,
for me that was the real decider;
the drunkard had to go.
I'm not disposed to injure pets,
but that was just before I met
that little yapper named Nanette,
a nasty little poodle.
Cruel events soon progressed and then escalated,
to men I played golf with and ladies I dated.
No-one was safe in my circle of fear,
not even those who I deemed to be dear.
My crime scenes were littered with brains, guts and fragments
of bodies I'd savaged in various apartments.
Knives, guns, machetes, drugs, clubs and hammers,
soon my body count exceeded Dahmer's.
Corpses continued as my senses were sated,
but lacking real hope of desire unabated.
Nothing could stop in this force to obtain,
the highest death count of my murderous campaign.
There's little to lose now as I've reached this stage
in a vicious crusade to mollify rage.
I'll hurt and I'll crucify, tear up and maim,
in this commercially successful video game.
Merry Christmas, everyone!
No animals or humans were injured in the making of this poem.
By Alan Dickie
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