THE LORD OF THE ABORTION CLINIC / by Joseph Castorino

 

This is the tale of a small little boy,

Who was sadly deprived of all life’s joy;

I’m supposed to call him “fetal tissue,”

But for me it’s not a PC issue;

I easily slaughtered him like a pig,

No problem, for he was soft as a fig;

Tongs crushed his skull like an egg’s brittle shell,

Blood flowed from Phelegethon in deep, dark hell;

If I had failed, I’d have lopped off his head,

A simple way to make sure that he’s dead;

You can call me a killer if you dare,

It’s no big deal, so I really don’t care;

Then, I stealthily sold his body parts,

I earn good dough from babies' lungs and hearts;

I’m sorry, but I really have to run,

Now I’m off to the beach to have some fun.