They send one every year or so
And I’ve not yet made light work of him
Or her
Smashing them with a piece of crockery
Heads thrusted through windows
Heaves down the staircase
The well-timed jab of a steak knife
Using whatever there is around:
Statuettes
Picture frames
Any blunt instrument
Made one drink bleach once
(Hell of a way to go)
A line of shrunken heads on the mantelpiece
A cabinet of failed poisons
Some I blinded with my thumbs
Broke their ankles
And tied them up
Dragged them down into the cellar
Put them on chains and leashes
Made them crawl around in the dirt
Looking for their eyes
And for their daggers
I feed them now on cow-blood
And their own tears
I even managed to breed a few
Baby assassins
Blind crawlers too
They call me “grandad”
It sickens me
They cannot get to me
They cannot ever best me
I know all their secrets
All their moves and tricks
I was their teacher in a previous life
