You didn’t know this child.
The less you know about me the better.
The grave digger will find all the sick little secrets.
I’m standing over the grave of another dead secret.
Will they be used against you when they are revealed?
I don’t want to give the bastard the satisfaction,
but if I am only as sick as my secret,
are you then purely anecdotal?
I hear silent cries.
I might as well be pissing on his grave.
You sick bastard!
Your ideals lie as dead as men in secret graves,
a Pandora’s box of all the hateful parts:
your arrogance, your spite, your condescension.
I just dug up a grave, dug around a bit, and found
the remnants of your sick, demented being.
Some secrets are better left six feet under;
all your lies and secrets get buried in unhappy fate.
I might have guessed your little secret.
Ah, yes, sick enough to want to believe so badly,
I was ill-prepared to call you an evil loathsome bastard.
What one secret have you taken to the grave?
This is flarf, but I’m not even sure it’s a poem.