The Letter

The Letter

I am sending you a letter curled in smoke,
When it hits your face you are going to choke

You fed my home with smoke day and night
What I am about to do I know is right.

You had no thought of me while I suffered in my house,
Now you will have to pay for what you blew from your mouth.

I wish I could spawn a tornado from the palm of my hand,
That at my command
would spin into the window, you have aimed toward my place
drill you in the face,
dance a gig in your mouth and wretch you from your perch in disgrace

But I guess a varnado fan will have to be what the Dr ordered
You are going to be drawn and quartered.

Goodbye for now, I will see you when it's warm,
Flies fly and bees swarm.

I will rip out this page but you are going to be torn.
When your putrid draught slaps you in your face.
You will loathe the day you polluted my place.

It will return to the very place you feared it to be
--your downstairs neighbors: they will not be happy,
You will see.

P. S.
I saw him moving the other day
I guess his neighbors sent him on his way.
I fought a daunting war with a fan,
It was the only defense I had on hand
I placed it where he could plainly see,
that he was my arch enemy.
To his puffing site Day and night I aimed it in direct line
I knew one day the victory would be mines.

No more masks covering my face
just to breath in my own place.