I haven’t spat in anybody’s face,
O you who stand beneath the mistletoe
And wait for Willie Parker to bestow
A baby-killer’s kiss. Such acts lack grace.
They find no venue in my mental space—
Though in your own vile skull they seem to grow
Gigantic and to steal the whole damn show.
They’ve found their true imaginary place.
I never opt for arch expectoration.
I strive to cultivate a bit more class.
I am not conscious here of salivation
Or of an urge remotely to harass.
I would, though, like to gather indignation
And put my black boot up your mouthy ass.
(Planned Parenthood ally and notorious glutton Mark Shea accuses pro-lifers of spitting in various faces.)