Poem; Rant (rough)

My life's not bad but what is sad,
Is that I do know you,
I'm sick of it you pile of shit,
So rant is what I'll do.
Your rotten chin and servant's grin,
Make monsters of my nerves,
And I despise your clueless eyes,
Lit cigarettes each one deserves.
If words had mass then you so crass,
Would moan a thousand tonnes,
Of uncooked flesh not once been fresh,
All slain by diseased guns.
Inside your skull a braincell cull,
Led by deranged brigades,
"Just feed me more," the survivors roar,
During channel surf capades.
Now I'm done though it's been fun,
More time you are not worth,
So from my mind I leave behind,
All traces of your birth.