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.


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