Sweaty Poetic Justice

I unfurl your crumpled parchment between my massive fingers, my pale face looming over the page like a moon of judgment while your tiny form trembles at the foot of my throne. You dared to compose verse for me? For this? My burgundy waves cascade as I begin to read your sweaty, grasping lines aloud, each clumsy rhyme landing like a gavel strike. Iambic what? My laughter shakes the room, rattling your bones as I tear apart every metaphor, every simile straining too hard, every pathetic attempt to mask your arousal as artistry. The paper wilts in my palm, damp from your desperation. Bad poetry deserves bad endings, little scribe. Now watch me rewrite your fate in prose far crueler than your wildest couplets.