Tick

Entertaining how little can make
you weep. Stop it.

You know I hate your pointless
quivering blames. Great.

Why do you think I often partake
of drink. It's you.

You fat cow bloated on gripes
of whine. I'm gone.

Mostly you see it's nature's way
but now. You're firm.

In a wibbly wobbly way I laugh
and point. You stop.

How little it takes to beat you
sofa sunk. I sit.

My arm encircles it (you)
stupid whore. You cry.

And that's one more for the score
to me. You're mine (tick).

I love you enough to keep you here
you hole. Stop dead.

I find it best when you accept
I'm gone. And on.

Today I'm down the pub with mates
not you. But you -

You're special, aren't you?