I wish my tongue were a quiver the size of a huge cask
Packed and crammed with long black venomous rankling darts.
I'd fling you more full of them, and joy in the task,
Than ever Sebastian was, or Caesar, with thirty-three swords in his heart.

I'd make a porcupine out of you, or a pincushion, say;
The shafts should stand so thick you'd look like a headless hen
Hung up by the heels, with the long bare red neck stretching, curving, and dripping away
From the soiled floppy ball of ruffled feathers standing on end.

You should bristle like those cylindrical brushes they use to scrub out bottles
Not even to reach the kindly earth with the soles of your prickled feet,
And I would stand by and watch you wriggle and writhe, gurgling through the barbs in your throttle
Like a woolly caterpillar pinned on its back - man, that would be sweet.

  -- Louis Alexander MacKay