The Compression Of Our Ghoul Poem by HIM Dr. Avinandan Manjit D'Costa-Roy I

So did the ghoul hate its life,
In spite of having yet such so many,
Tracklessly did they serve his strife,
But returns not it'd ever have any.
They left their fleet off its concern,
Around and about their heads were any,
Though its motives not to they'd return,
Never the one first, only wanted they many.
Brutish would they be towards it ever,
Yet the stern not had it any,
To toe the chance that called its lucre,
Missing forever the substances many.
It imagined to fly from its poops,
But openings hasn't it ever any,
But angry it secretly rebels itself,
Chances having missed altogether, but many.

Resorted had it to lift up nuisance,
Piling malignantly, to seem very brainy,
They stacked on over its heights upon the resistance,
Assuring it had now enough for whenever rainy.
Craftily had it fetched too much,
A surely creep show, aiming to make,
Unconscious of all the dissent to such,
Sneakily, in, all the value, to rake.
It resorted to count its pride in its lingers,
With all the previous accumulations being forgotten,
It dreamt its preys craving them to its fingers,
Until it could dream no more but itself's rotten.
The lone hatchery, smug in conspiracy,
Taught itself habituation of disguise,
Futile its ogles, behind the mask of celibacy,
Even though its corruption it couldn't itself revise.

Found it, its ease, to cook itself a lair,
Torturing its victim with leechy leechy noises,
Stalked it up the precaution its victim'd share,
Began it to feed on the agony from its opposite voices.
Though its suit found it not,
Its time called it out its patience,
It conspired to call itself bought,
Thought it, another way, it'd continue its nonsense.
But it'd gorge during the grave, from the ground up,
Botherless of its prey's astonishment,
Surprised of absurdity they'd begin to tough,
Yet naively, it'd elude, off its procurement.
Until God only knows, it's heights of immorality,
But, what sense, would it yet only find itself?
No! Rather it'd 'proceed' to devour, in totality,
Damaging off its only last help.

It's sore lack, it begins to reek,
Excreting about its stockpile of excuses,
Who'd it matter if the world finished it to seek!
It'd go beyond, even if each and every refuses.
It'd brag and brag, over and beyond its whim,
Maliciously, stowing back its crafted poisons,
All the innocence, it seeking to dim,
Belligerent altogether against its internal reasons.
It'd gather and muster, upon its might,
Its cowardly courage to spew its broth of venom,
It'd refuse against normality every its right,
Sole to spoil every innocent forum.
Then it pushes the limits of depletion,
Its precarious pernickety of dark craft,
It's excuses running down, scarring glorious solution,
Yet, only opposite the truth, our ghoul daft.

With upraised frustration, would it perpetrate,
Yet again, though causeless, in sharp absurdity,
Inspite of the sensible pleas of normality, penetrate,
Ghoul, into the confines of its shock-stricken prey, with renewed trickery.
The stirs of the reason, luminously kicking in,
Of the innocent, deserved mercy befall,
Breaking the pillars of senseless snooping,
Its shame, now already corrupted overall.
In its aim to adjut its victim, it braced its assault,
Lo, but its instrument, could it never locate now,
Was it previously consumed in concealment of fault,
Its shaming absence, its motive, did it cloud.
Did notice, its victim, the failure, from its miss,
Solemn in reserve, the target resolved in a flinch,
Rising against our ghoul, stern and quite,
The umbrella of lies, of ghoul, did it clinch,
Bringing its refuge down upon itself, nigh downright.