Esophageal Violence

If one more imbecile insults my hat
I'll put my fist through his esophagus,
And throw his dead corpse underneath a bus,
Remembering to call him gross and fat
When his distended street-bound innards splat
And spray and spread immense amounts of pus
Among the passers-by, who argue, fuss,
And marvel, "Man! What do you think of that?"

I think esophageal violence
Will save our headgear from insulting taunts
In all our usual accustomed haunts.
One feels quite safe, given the evidence
That flattened dolts won't go to great expense
To come back. Frankly, that is all one wants.