She'd love to carve his lungs out
and plop them in a dish,
place them on the mantle
to gaze at as she wished.

From his bones she'd build a table
to set her dinner rolls.
His skull would be her pitcher
to hold some chilled bordeau.

Sipping from his kneecap,
she'd rub the rim around her lips
and his teeth she'd have to string
for a belt around her hips.

His skin would stretch nicely
to make a gruesome rug,
she'd call his best friend over
and upon it they'd make love

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