There exists a contorted little being,

With a toothy, slightly crooked grin,

Not forgetting the raspy breathing.

This little creature is of genus Sin.

There are not people who ignore,

The little beast that seems to saturate

And spill and spout and spew much more,

Of its venom black at a rapid rate.

It stalks, with a hunter’s prowess,

The dim and feeble victim’s mind.

It seeps and pours in every crevice,

And is the plague of all mankind.

One does not sense its presence.

Its poison in the veins flows thick.

This potent toxin has a essence,

That cannot be distilled by trick.

You ask what monster can this be!

That it forever plagues my world.

I shall never be plagued, but free.

My conscience shall stay uncurled.

But my friend you must now see,

Though it may give you tears to cry,

The cause of all this awful melee,

Is that word, just the little word, I.