Poetic Justice

If you happen to remember that packet of mawkish poems you gave my humbly on my birthday, yet proceeded to gut my soul from me mere months later... Even if some ridiculous publisher bought into your hollow words, gilded in a cryptic tongue; And those yellowed pieces of paper accrued to a fortune that could pay away all of my troubles, and land me as far away from you as I wished to be... I'd rather burn them to the ground, you lying pig.