You’re very welcome!

I regularly fold glue traps shut

while they still squeak,

hit them with my flashlight

to cave in skulls, release

that might not rhyme

but gets easier after so many

and you get to cry murder. 

Racket flutters to and from

young life in a nest

above shit covered chairs

on the balcony of nr. 7

This might be a verse

without mild irony or cause

but I’ve got necks to break?

It takes about twenty liters

and what used to be a home

turned another junkie den

before every flea is dead.

I might miss the poetry

scene even less, with as 

foul reeking, bloated meaning.