A Recipe of Pain

A twinge of suffer
Enough to fool a bluffer

A cup of discomfort
Worth an 8th of true comfort

Chuck in a low cramp
And you’ll be coming home damp

Mix it together with agony
The smell shall vast with misery

Pour it in a bowl of distress
And you’ll know it’s not for the contest

Three table spoons of pure blood
It’ll be enough to pull a serious stunt

Cast some grief for the flavor
And you’ll soon understand it’s doing you a favor

Dump it in another bowl and stir it well
Stinging and aching it shall tell

Half it; make sure it’s parted
And you’ll know it’s not for the faint–hearted

Slide it onto a plate
The smell shall revise your fate

A pang to the heavy-beating heart
And it will gradually tear you apart

One salty tear shall be your last
As you slowly realize, you’re not dying fast.