Push My Buttons

Come and shake my hand if you are man enough to face the noise
I’ll gut and scalp my enemies while smiling with gracious poise.
Go on and push my buttons, quickly you will find I’m not a toy
so if you play with me I’ll make you weep all while I weep for joy.
Devil in the heart of every man, sometimes I let mine loose,
but I use mine for good to string my adversaries from the noose.
Truth in retrospective points of view will reassure my soul,
but if you play with fire be prepared to burn to pay the toll.
And moreover I’ll run you over if you harm the ones I love,
and we’ll dance on your grave and wave to you in Hell from up above.
“Hello down there, how’s the weather these days?
The evil we could see through was too much so you weren’t saved.”
Laughing like a villain, vigilante gets the final laugh
and stretching out your organs like the upward trending of a graph.
As you can see from our projections, this will likely be a solid year,
without your interjections life can now resume without a fear.
I want to picnic on your grave, it’s not the same without you there,
but you are done for, six feet under, still you wonder if I care?
Care, huh? I care not. I carefully carried you up to your plot.
I walked through the cemetery, the weather was hot,
wiped my brow and looked down and said, “This is the spot.”
This hits the spot, all this talk of your ending,
if you’re finally gone that means no more pretending.
I have the devil on my shoulder and my demons on the other one,
when you looked up at me flexing it was understood that you were done.
You had that premonition, call it intuition of your fate,
and right from my position I had nothing left to contemplate.
To fuck with me – your first mistake,
to fuck with me – your worst mistake,
to fuck with me – the earth will shake,
don’t fuck with me – you earned my hate.
Google search the definition of a fucking psychopath,
and you will see a summary beside of a photo of my wrath.
Sad, sad poet has some mad, mad energy,
I’m glad, glad you noticed you’re a bad, bad enemy.
Go on, tell me to express my ruthless anger in a healthy way,
you throw temper tantrums, I write poems; yeah I thought so. K.
Too clever, it’s whatever, I’m just better than you thought I was,
but I write lines while you waste time and I do what a socket does
I give power to myself and to my people, and so we get wired
and there is no dispute that we’ll electrocute you, don’t get tired.
We will sleep when we are dead, you’re asleep within your head,
that means you just dream but don’t take action – look, your face is red.
Caught red-faced and then red-handed, it’s what we call guilty as charged,
the man who takes your soul and breaks you, no mistake he’ll be at large.
I implore this selfish world, do yourself a favor please
and as you fail to make a difference, do not blame or anger me.

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