The Delicious Revenge of Perfafanu Ignius Flot

Wretched, cretched
Old Sebastian Flot
grew tomatoes and roses
on next door’s vacant lot.
The lot, the same spot
where teenage kids smoked pot
and fornicated.
With the odd missed shot.

‘Tween twines and vines
and thorns and knots,
through poop and goop
toe-jam and snot,
grew a small boy
out of the compost rot.
His name you ask?
Perfafanu Ignius Flot.

Flot’s physical flaws were
Below repute,
stuck in the ground
His feet were roots.
His hair were straw
and his fingernails, shoots.
He was home to flies,
flees, flukes and newts.

Word got round town
of this shrub-human’s fruit.
As ugly as sin
But his produce was beaut.
As the townfolk picked Flot
they laughed and they hoot
and sliced his ‘good-eatin’ limbs
to fill their car-boot.

Not quite a real boy
not quite a scare crow
he stood in the lot
of rose and tomato.
Wore a green bean frown,
cheeks wildberry-stained glow.
And when he passed shat
soiled-seeds would sow.

Manure manoeuvred
Perfafanu to grow.
Above the shrubs,
Beyond the hedge-row.
Til it rained ten nights straight
For the soil to erode
and Flot’s feet wriggled loose,
from the boggy below.

One root, two root,
three step, four.
Went Perfafanu’s feet
through the garden floor
Tomatoes were squashed
into a bloody red gore.
Roses were trampled
And the scent over-awed.

When dawn broke wind,
grabbing Flot’s funk and spore
the township knew
this odorous roar
That their kids’ evil doings
Had rotted to the core.
Revenge would be sweet
For this fermented folklore.

Perfafanu’s trail,
one of grossness and grime
moved through the town,
slithering on slime.
Warning bells rang out
not rung since wartime,
but the townfolks’ wails
deafened the chime.

A conscious path
Was Flot’s snail line.
As he lurched through streets
Oozing wild booze and brine.
School was just in,
It was a quarter past nine.
But Filthy fifteen-year-olds
had only sex on the mind.

With a hideous wail
dirty Julie Jones was first.
Smoking in the girls room
His strong vines – her lungs burst.
He devoured fat Hans
Which saw roles reversed.
As Hans would eat Flot’s tubers
With gravy and bratwurst.

Flot fed on the football squad
drank their blood, quenched his thirst.
Cos at his lot, with the cheerleaders,
the team oft emersed.
Though, this was a routine
the girls had not rehearsed,
as he ate their legs for dinner
and their breasts, just desserts.

So Let this be a lesson
to you rotten fornicators
and filthy fiends fondling
each other’s pornicators.
Mixing sodden seeds in Eden,
makes you one of God’s traitors.
And you’ll face the evil wrath
Of our Almighty creator.

And kids, don’t eat your greens.
Who cares ‘bout dessert later.
Just think about the cuisine
of Pafafanu Flot’s haters.
Those hunters became the hunted
of the vengeful Vegitator…
So only eat meat
and always and forever remain…
masturbators.

By Colin Delaney

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