Whisky pixies fast-track it to hell.
I’m the troublemaker . . . you ne’er wish to meet.
You bet I’m a shaker, bed down in the heat.
When I feel salacious, flying fast I scamp.
Sure, my word’s fallacious. I’m a primo vamp.
I’ll take up the gauntlet. I will never fail.
Uttering my tauntlets, crudities prevail.
Hungry for some fresh meat? (Sinful grin I flash.)
Crunching bones in my teeth, gleefully I gnash.
Tendrils dangling idly make you wonder why
I fly effortlessly, flutt’ring lobes, my, my!
Hanging by a tendril to this hellish life,
I trod ever downhill, digging all this strife.
My life’s testimony to the scum I am.
I’m an acrimony, a fickle, black lamb.
Compete with my father, as well, with my son.
I’ll beget with fodder from where’er it comes.
Whisk until I’m sixty, rush for many more.
Such is life for pixies, devils to the core.