The Box Maker.... A Vey Very Dark Poem. Poem by Shaun Cronick

In me they trust,
I pose no threat.
Their only mistake,
With doomed regret.

They're all scum,
Each and every one.
And what I do,
I do for fun.

My arm in a sling,
Part of my disguise.
Walk up to them,
And a syringe surprise.

I drug them up,
A death knell chimes.
I show no mercy,
For their sick crimes.

A box prepared,
Made to fit.
A work of art,
I must admit.

I fold them up,
Cram them in.
And I'll always,
Sever a limb.

Nice and snug,
They fit right in.
Lid nailed down,
A box of sin.

The hardest wood,
Cold steel nails.
Secures their agony,
It never fails.

Such loving care,
Attention to detail.
A clever killer,
Who'll never fail.

It's my hobby,
My aim in life.
A simple box maker,
Who kills with rife.

I am a showman,
It's what I do.
My spite and wrath,
Is now on view.

Always with holes,
So they can breathe.
Sometimes they cry,
My hatred seethes.

At times I might,
Put in a rat or two.
Depends how many victims,
Are soiled by you.

When a box is found,
A headline splash.
Another paedophile murder,
Buried in trash.

I've now evolved,
Changed my M O.
Still gift them death,
A death more slow.

Foolish of me,
Not to grasp.
A unique suffering,
And a final gasp.

Each box now bigger,
Of a sort.
Still inescapable,
Hopeless to thwart.

A simple plan,
I did contrive.
They're six feet under,
Now buried alive.