When you see my post about Andrew Tate

I may not look like a fight,

But I’m a lover of the bite.

My friends have fangs -

Wild Children of the night.

They taught me to howl

As the bloody moon’s first sight

Brightly shines onto you,

Sweat trickles silver tinsel

Gleaming on your cheeks

forehead blue in pale moonlight.

You may not look like a fight:

Shivering bones fragile as clay, with

Clinking jaws of glass in the night.

But I know as you turn away

You put on Popeye’s stone face

Roll up your sleeves, pump ‘em tight,

Like a red, meaty meal up for bait.

“Eat your heart out, Andrew Tate!”

(Smooth like Velvet on the tongue)

But I know It’s a show,

and how your flesh really grows,

To such thin skin yet stacked such tough.

(Tastes dry like paper shredded)

You’re such a peach, all fuzz and hype -

Waiting for some talking rodent to squirrel away your heart, embedded,

Into their hoard of delicate delights.

Lesser a feast for my means -

After I sink in my teeth,

I’ll wipe my palate clean

With a big gulp of Dramamine.

Your views, your taste, they sicken me

But the hunter must quash mobility

Of the killer of kindness,

of distributing views:

A population of populists

Crying about fake news.