by John Muth

MY SHREDDER is evil,
A wood pulp hit-man,
The kind hidden
Under the desk
Of a crooked accountant.
I can hear it in every room,
Murdering receipts
And seven year-old checks,
Shrieking in crescendo,
Like an electric opera diva
Locked in an insane asylum.
I hate it,
It scares me,
Once, clearing a jam,
It even cut me,
Winking afterwards
With its power-on red eye.
I’d love to take it back,
Give it away,
Smash it to pieces,
But my girlfriend gave it to me
As a gift
For my birthday,
And I really love her meatloaf,
And the sex, of course.

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