The paint is wet but that does not mean the words on the walls,

written with leisurely pursuit, are wrong.

What was the bitter pill you swallowed to lose the most feminine of truths,

the art of compassion and consideration

for all you serve, or is the serving just for self advancement

the chance to take one for the team by bending over

backwards in the fawning style of a clown, a quick one in

the castle

lobby as you will be remembered for the death and suffering of many.

 

You have no respect for those you are supposed to serve,

not the ones you want to serve; the ones you want to serve,

up as a platter on the silver dish you wish you had been born with

rammed in the hole of

humanity as the calls of misogynistic intent

are bandied around like the death certificates you place before your

paymaster, not the ones who pay your way to spout evil,

which you see as doctrine worth fulfilling.

 

Let’s not bandy the same words that your people know

with hand on hard on cold heart you don’t give,

the fuck that was missing you probably

enjoyed doing over and over again, make them suffer, make them bleed,

make whatever the fuck you please, for the only recourse,

the only truth, is there is one more person more hated than you.

You turned away from femininity, for femininity is not in style,

or appearance, it is in the act of pulling back the bully of the man

who truly wants to fuck the world, the one who suggests

with innocent face waging war with the fat, ugly, demon snarling,

snapping, fighting in turmoil with itself and making sure the mask

of respectability never slips, remind you of anyone

who was said could never be seen on the political stage again.

 

There was no need for three witches to guide you to your ultimate doom,

modern Lady Macbeth that you are, with aspirations to be Medea.

The downfall of Lady M, out damn spot of wet paint

on the walls, let them eat cake whilst they starve to death,

more poison from the well and push that ding dong pussy in there as well,

forty whacks after drowning them all in sacks, not enough one more, forty one

after showing them the door.

Goodnight Lady M, sleep tight and don’t let the bed bugs infest your

charmless personality any further, for the damned already reside inside

your dusty hole where the sun does not shine

and the Witch of Edmonton, foul figure that you are will never

be replaced by anything so sweet. Goodnight Lady M, take Macbeth with you please.

 

For E.M

Ian D. Hall 2015