The Vum

She waits in her office, hair pulled back tight,

Her face dour, shriveled—vomitous sight!

A lad comes to see her, papers in hand,

Called after class to fulfill her demand.

He doesn’t want to but bends to her will;

She uses the role of teacher to kill.

He sits before her; she closes the door.

He rises to flee but falls to the floor

When her cigarette fingers rise and loom

High above, creeping, booming, she—the Vum.

Her head splits in pieces, neatly in two,

Squirting and pulsing and oozing with goo.

Her empty-bag titties open and gape

Flapping beneath the head-halves like a cape.

The wrinkles that wreathe, above and below,

Sprout razors that run split top to cleft toe.

The middle is naught but tentacle mass;

No stomach is left, no ’gina, no ass.

Each wriggling thing coils toward the prone lad

With pointy knob ends to pierce where he’s bad.

Screeching desire inside the goo pieces

She emits the fell odor of feces,

Which makes the lad tremble when she draws near:

Each Vummy detail arouses his fear.

Her feast begins when the tentacles strike,

Gripping and licking, they go where they like.

Stabbing the boy who needs tenderest touch—

Even one of her knobs would be too much!

Again, again, she violates and takes,

Stripping and sucking and eating lad cakes.

(Seeing her eat, stuffing boys in her hole,

Is stunning to see, no mouth to behold.)

Before he can scream, the boy’s fight is done,

The Vum zips her head up, hair in a bun.

Her door reopens, calls invitation

To the next fool who’ll bow to her station.

Her walls hang with prizes given herself

Declaring her teaching top of top shelf.

No one will dare ever challenge the Vum

Until you deal slayage, hand her just doom!

Spray her with acid, dissolve foulest flesh,

Turn wrinkles and bags to meaningless mesh.

When she’s a puddle she’ll then do no harm

And you’ll be a hero: don’t wait, aux armes!

 

MORAL: The only good Vum is dead, smushed mushy-mushy, fell foot to whore head. Don’t delay. Kill a Vum today.