Combat

Pestilence incarnate cries at her loudest
Captivating the attention of the lucky young males
In droves they come throwing away their free wills for a taste

‘Droves’ being a stretch at best

And of course she’s had the worst pampering of life
Her paper thin troubles will net you a eternity of goose chasing
The Chupacabra you can never catch, the Bigfoot you can never prove was even there

If not a hearbreak in similes
What else is she ‘sposed to post for her followers?

She slams onto to the catwalk
Avert your eyes, cameras, guns, blades away from it
Even wounds feeds it’s insatiable hunger
After all a target needs to be aimed at

But a funny thing happened one morn
A million followers started to thin, picked apart one by one
The icon of a generation started to clear into a symbol of self indulgence

Who could’ve been so cruel?

It was me who picked the flowers in your garden
The one who gave man his tounge and made the blind see again
It’s not hard to bring the starstrucked back to the land of independant thought

The method is private i’m afraid

And to add salt to the wound
I did it with my hands tied behind my back
I hope you think of me when you chronicle your demise to the masses

‘The defective who took down perfection herself’