Your flirting I find disconcerting,
your pleasure causes me pain.
Your humour is about as funny as a brain tumour,
and your politeness is only for your own gain.
Your vanity is borderline insanity,
your thoughts only to yourself.
Your friends are soon to meet their ends
their prospects are to be stacking shelves.
Your care I fail to see anywhere
unless it's for your figure
Your woes are non-existent, everyone knows
that I hate you with such vigour.
Whoever said sarcasm is the lowest form of whit
mustn't have heard the garbage that you have been saying
next time you cross the road, make sure you get hit
for I wouldn't find your pain entirely dismaying.
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