The Box Maker.... A Vey Very Dark Poem.

In me they trust, I pose no threat. Their only mistake, With doomed regret. They're all scum, Each and every one. And what I do, I do for fun. My arm in a sling, Part of my disguise. Walk up to them, And a syringe surprise. I drug them up, A death knell chimes. I show no mercy, For their sick crimes. A box prepared, Made to fit. A work of art, I must admit. I fold them up, Cram them in. And I'll always, Sever a limb. Nice and snug, They fit right in. Lid nailed down, A box of sin. The hardest wood, Cold steel nails. Secures their agony, It never fails. Such loving care, Attention to detail. A clever killer, Who'll never fail. It's my hobby, My aim in life. A simple box maker, Who kills with rife. I am a showman, It's what I do. My spite and wrath, Is now on view. Always with holes, So they can breathe. Sometimes they cry, My hatred seethes. At times I might, Put in a rat or two. Depends how many victims, Are soiled by you. When a box is found, A headline splash. Another paedophile murder, Buried in trash. I've now evolved, Changed my M O. Still gift them death, A death more slow. Foolish of me, Not to grasp. A unique suffering, And a final gasp. Each box now bigger, Of a sort. Still inescapable, Hopeless to thwart. A simple plan, I did contrive. They're six feet under, Now buried alive.