I’ve procured some toxic weedkiller
from outside. It was hard to smuggle
past the screws, but it’ll work a treat
on his fucking majesty. If I spend more
time inside for this, the satisfaction
of seeing him squirm will far outweigh
the extra years behind bars.
Because I am essentially made
for prison life. When I was young,
killing scrawny cats in the park,
I thought my empire would grow
grand. It has. Men bow at my feet.
They admire me. Except him.
I shall have him writhing on the cement
and his precious family chewing shit.
This is not over by half. Nobody
shall walk prouder than I, when they cart
out the corpse of this sickening ponce.