Fee-fi-foe-fum, I’ve got salt on my tongue,
from licking my lips with the smell of human.
I’ll squash that little pest, watch his head pop off his chest,
and I’ll sit back quite satisfied.
Swallow him down, a meal fit for a crown,
with their nutritionally arrogant minds.
They bicker over differences, but they all taste the same
to a palette not so fine.
I’ll slaughter them by the hundreds, if I could be so lucky
to find such a goldmine.
They’re slow as molasses, scattering in all directions.
little voices screaming out of their minds.