Scorched earth

and after the hiss of the flame thrower 

the odor of burnt greens rises to my nostrils,

yes, me, the weedimator, the one who leans

over towering weeds, a delicate purple

purse casually thrown over my shoulder,

yes, I have destroyed this city of weeds,

they shrivel into black, never to rise again.

Scorched earth against a noble enemy.

their neighbors will rise in protest

and my torch will scald them to the 

earth, I will hear their shrieks echo 

against brick walls.

(wow, such violence, kind of scary!)