Tristan Robert Lange

Devilishly Dreadful: Saint Sorebones

CONTENT NOTE:

Includes references to sexual abuse and graphic violence.

___________

It has been said that to forgive’s divine

And to forget is to be forgotten—

Sty slop thrown into the dank pen with swine—

As one left down in the darkness, rotten,

Gone bad, dismissed, removed by one’s design.

The fate of one so used, abused, ill-gotten;

But fate is a fickle, little hater—

The creator of the plot twist—this...later.

You may or may not know I had a spine.

I was a spy, no lie—my skills gotten

Through sex appeal, a wholesome girl redesign—

Started wearing fine silk and not cotton—

Lipstick, liner, shadow, and rouge look fine;

My hope for some respect—misbegotten.

There is no such honor for a traitor—

And that was the case for this narrator.

What can be said?—other than I would shine

For Eneas Earthworm, the law begotten

By a people who make their laws entwine

With their own damn corruption, spoiled rotten—

For him I would hook up with men once we’d dine—

Hard criminals who seemed to like bottom;

Helpless position for a dictator,

But let’s not rush the story—more later.

Countless men fell for the trap I’d assign—

You were no different, you know, sodden

With sweat and cum—after which, all resign

To think that they’ve won, that their seed’s gotten

To fill up a little, hot whore—divine!

But as they reach for terry cotton—

The cops show up, as I was used as bait

So the law could cut corners and not wait.

Yes, I am kidding you not, don’t malign

The truth with your lies—fucking swill—rotten

To the bone you are! Yes—regular swine!

I fucked you too, but don’t act downtrodden

Mr. Rafferty—show you have a spine,

Don’t act like this is all misbegotten!—

To a criminal life you did cater;

Suck it up buttercup, I’m your waiter.

Don’t like you didn’t set this up?—don’t whine!

Listen up, you prick, you’re not who’s trodden.

You will never be the one to define

Who’s forgiven through being forgotten

Anymore!—you hear me—tonight you are mine,

And this is where all the fun will be gotten,

So, shut it Skeleton Key! Shut your grater!

Tonight you’ll be buried in a crater!

You left me in a nunnery divine,

Left me there to die and be forgotten—

Crippled from the fall with a broken spine—

There for the priests to touch me with rotten

Hands made for awful intentions; confine,

Suppress, rape and then hide it with cotton—

See, Mr. Key, I’m not a debator—

Let us end this debate now, not later!

Alice, please get me those pruners—that’s fine—

You do remember Alice, ill-gotten,

Right?—how you and ol’ Wormy could consign

Her to the shadows of jailed bones, rotten,

Frame her as villain and thenceforth confine

To more than prison—her name misbegotten

Well, Trevellyan here is an equator,

Ready to work—a new man creator.

Place it right there darling—yes. That’s divine.

Any last things to say, Mr. Rock-Bottom?

No worries about Earthworm—he did just fine—

It just takes seconds, nothing forgotten.

I mean how can you forget such a puny design?—

Or the sharp pain from this thing, ill-gotten

There, don’t you cry and scream like a freighter—

I didn’t draw this out till much later.

Now, open up wide like you want some wine—

I know you’re going to find this rotten—

Don’t squirm, a parting gift from ‘Worm is thine;

Fits perfect—your silence now begotten—

Gagging sounds, now from out your throat, not mine.

It’s real clear—right Alice?—we’ve not forgotten;

How’s that taste? Good thing you won’t smell the pine.

Grab that gun Alice! Time to kill this swine!

First published on tristanrobertlange.com, September 28, 2026.

Tittu

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Coming next Macabre Monday:

DEVILISHLY DREADFUL

The Boy Detective;

or, the Crimes of the Collective

on October 5, 2026