Weekend Getaways

Any weapon of opportunity
Is enough to bait my thrill
I’ve found enough to serve me well
during my pass through Bunker Hill

My contemporaries prefer to hide
In the habits of the eighties
a passing fad of silly masks
a trend that drives me crazy

The neglected hose of snaking green
serves a perfect means to choke
the retired man pegging laundry up
a wrinkled oval drained of hope

A Friday crime in a smaller place
allows two days without detection
the headline news come Monday morning
will capture everyone's attention

A hobby farm that skirts the town
starts a terror to be remembered
I stumble upon a morning chore
three people turn up dismembered

There are many ways to shuffle death
ecstasy rises to greet their shock
I plunge a pitchfork in a belly
and bash another with a heavy rock

I am at my most creative
if the body count keeps climbing
to conduct a symphony of whimpered cries
it is all about my timing

Men are often easy prey
mesmerized by my feminine form
an appearance drenched in fantasy
from my early days in porn

My blonde hair swinging back and forth
spurts of blood in sporadic showers
I maim them in outrageous ways
to display my growing powers

Sunday night and I've managed twelve
enough bodies to have them worried
I will hide and rest until Thursday night
before I catch my flight to Surrey.