Miss 31

He was an old man,

how could they ever suspect you?:

Miss. 31, Miss. No-one.

Miss. Caring,

Miss. "I’m used to sharing".

Mr. Stethoscope had told him, to lay off,

the golden-brown stuff,

the white sticks, with the cancerous puffs.

But of-course he knew what he was doing,

you knew what you where doing,

and he ended thinking he was wrong.

No-one was anything,

anything was everything,

and everything was not enough.

You wanted, but not to make, moneys empire,

so you created falsehood, with your heart: a liar.

You become the object of greeds desire:

For him to have a pretty thing on his arm,

the busty thing, that could do no harm.

You knew that loves muscle would give up sooner or later,

but later was to far away,

and you thought that fate was yours to sway.

You popped some unhealthy powder into his golden drink,

drank with him, seconds after the friendly clink,

watched as his cheeks turned white from pink.

But even as he started to die,

the crocodile in lip-stick started to cry,

then you kissed him on the forehead and whispered ‘bye-bye’.

Of-course you would not be above suspicion,

but that’s just a consequence of completing the mission.

Mr. Magnifying-glass knew,

but no finger-prints stuck like glue,

and you knew, and he knew that you knew.

And now you wallow in stolen glory,

and feel no burden of guilts hidden story,

Now you look down, seeing people as stuff,

because now you have his everything,

But, of-course, everything is not enough.