You, cannibal queen, decapitate your men. Spitting bile down the neck; a furnace for the exoskeletons. You are a bed sore prone to pressure. Nightmares bring their weapons to your summons; Cloth of brimstone lining the dock. And there you are in your miser’s paunch; Bent-double in a show of grief. This is your conceit of mirrors. But you, cannibal queen, do not reflect. The blank bogs eclipse your moral compass, Each direction left in the gunpowder black. Cannibal, cannibal, cannibal; pass me your plate.
Not so much tongue-twister as tongue-slicer