For good old Harper Lee, a mockingbird would do,
but as I look around, there’s so much more to choose,
my black book list of ending, has ink to act as blood,
to fill in certain gaps, of designs; that never would,
to tolerate the hate, that they indeed provide,
will never be a crime, as it’s a matter of pride,
old habits make the bedrocks, of all that is known,
creating their birth exits, such decaying that has grown,
thus, a lust for cleaning wakes, to return to the pure,
let justice be in murder, as removing is the cure,
so proud; these talking monkeys, the keys that are bereft,
time to pick clear targets, that they should now forget,
upon my docket; hoods, that were bundles of joy,
who, on the street; choose; to steal from those employed,
though they call me: \"monster\", with their normal law,
as I blade those teens, to spill them on the floor,
then the heirs of Big Brother, I now attend to,
gods of their content, who edit through and through,
I will cancel them, erasing censorship,
again, I am demonised, by their membership,
I make more bullet points, to riddle them with holes,
those behind the desks, who have sold all their souls,
Westminster, will blister, giving space to cope,
but their familiarities, gives my neck the rope,
as a reaper’s clearly chosen, by popular opinion,
the mob can’t allow, a single thought decision,
to pour gasoline, on an already blazing fire,
seems to be the good deed, the stalwart of desire,
can you clearly see, why my book is so thick?
My need to break the clock, that makes all of them tick,
but my file of such defiling, gathers dust on the shelf,
as I believe; when I kill you, I will kill myself!