Hatred (NaPo #1/30)

It t'was years ago,
When like a billow, my fury did wash over me, and start to grow.
When I saw her,
Turning my memory a blur,
And since then, my fury I have fostered.
Just when I tried to relinquish it, I appeared to have gone backward,
I looked inly, but found her to be a bawd and a knave,
And now hereat whenever I see her, I have to try to not rant and rave,
About my hatred for her, wishing her in the grave.
Whenever I see her face with mine eyne, or I harken somsone quoth
One of her lines, I silently remember my oath,
To smite that waste of space,
And now it is a race
Against time to get to ifsoever hither somewither
That she may in-sooth be, I whisper
To myself, to dish out her imminent, immedicable, danger,
Her doom,
Somewither she may be, a location, or a room.
Howbeit I hate her ilk, bawds, knaves, and the like,
And as I indite this "take a hike
From life" poem,
This hereunto, hereapon, skim
Her from the pool of life,
Her, rife
With disease of the brain,
And retain
This world's glory,
I must hie hence to her location and furbish my pen, end her story,
Stop her from spewing her word flux she should have saved for a lavatory!
Heretofore, I have been good,
But now, I'm not in the mood,
I have to be good,
Howbiet, murder being my demesne, within a twelvemonth,
I'll release the hatred I've been wont to every month,
I'll arrive upon a steed,
(And not to do a good deed)
And with the plan I did excogigate, I'll deal stripe after stripe,
Instead of just walking hither and thither, spewing tripe
And dreams, never to be acted upon,
But rather anon,
To end and degrade the name of that which is adenocarcinomatous,
And lecherous!
As insignificant as a clew, or an animalcule,
Seeing her face, is cruel
And unusual punishment,
And every time I see her photo,
I am tortured, but must show a happiness pseudo,
Must not let anyone know,
The horrors locked within my heart,
That will soon part,
When I find and tear asunder that pseudo-human,
Nothing but common,
Just bane, and diseased vermin.
Just a mutated, bulbous, blob,
That I am going to rob
Of life,
With which she should never have been rife.
I know why she never married, some reason others see her as a dame, and she erelong, would have too many cisisbeovs,
And they would not be improvs.
I know I may be just a dandiprat,
Not some fancy aristocrat,
But I will make a name for myself,
When on my deathbed, I tell that it was myself
Who made the famous work of surrealism
Showing the nihilism
Betwixt expiry and life.
For I would rather have scurvy than see her face living again,
That is the plan....
What are you looking at?
Oh, don't worry about the tapster, he "didn't" hear that.....