Pig fingers from the afterlife
Haunting your frying pan
As the heat begins to punish,
The squeals and satanic hiss ferment.
At night, the darkness promises
The Offalgeist will appear
Dressed in tight, suffocating skin
Fragrant herbs in your nostrils
Inches from your snoring throat.
Your strangulation is ready to serve
But sadly
The offalgeist
Has no hands.
You are pardoned.
He will add
"grow hands for next time"
Onto his Google calendar.
