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When I was five I killed a toad.
At first I found him alive in the middle of the road.
I picked him up and placed him in a pail.
I went to the garage and found a big nail.
I held the toad and poked his eye.
Then my hand was no longer dry.
I looked around and began to clamor.
Where the FUCK was Dad’s big hammer.
I secured the toad in a vice instead.
Then I drove that nail right in his head.
His tiny limbs began to twitch.
For I had delivered quite a stitch.
I pulled the nail from his brain.
Sticky red blood began to drain.
What I observed triggered a feeling quite nice.
How could I not resist tightening the vice.
Tighter and tighter I added to the stress.
Then all that was left was a boring mess.
The game I was playing had lost all appeal.
I’d left no signs that toad had ever been real.
I scraped away the bone and flesh that remained.
No one would know the vice had been bloodied and stained.
I placed mangled remains in the trash without a word.
Then I noticed a lame bird…
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