Tar Poem by Peter Black

And so it seems best to become like tar,
Black on the inside, pig iron wrought hard:
Sick and dead, so whomever my skins touch
Grow ill, fall apart, drips and is undone;
So wherever I go, I leave foul marks,
Dark spot to tell I am dead to rot.
When they come, I shall warn I can not stand,
The world any longer being a man;
Turn to a boil, pusing, a gashed scar
To drip on mankind only mankind's flaws,
Lurking around the streets and alleyways,
A demon, a monster long stripped of a name,
To be titled fear and death by those that go,
Running from my heart sick and painful moans.