The Twatters Prison

Here lies the old twatters prison,
The old steel gates that shake
And the old steel men that shake them.
There lies the old guard,
Unclenching his fists and releasing the long,
Overdue shadow of grief over the long,
Overdue souls of the inmates.

The men themselves feel not,
They have gone too far without feeling
Their lymph nodes and
Their lymph tails and
Their rectal itches.

They will pass unnoticed through the annals of history.
Their stories will not be sung nor read nor danced.
They will die alone.
For to twat is to subject oneself to the lowest form of misery.

For twatting, my brother...
Is the ultimate sin.