He's a slithering scumbag zit sucking scourge of a pig's last spurt of sperm. He's a corn hauling, cream toting, bean pulling, anachronistic, achrophobic, venemous, flesh-monger born of a cowardly father and prosipitous mother.
He's a scullion, a rampallian, a fustilarian, a future promise of catastrophe.
A trunk of horrors, a bolting-hutch of beastliness, a swollen parcel of dropsies,
a huge bombard of sack, a stuffed cloak-bag of guts, a roasted herefordshire ox with pudding in his belly.
You starvelling, you eel-skin, you dried neat's-tongue, you bull's-pizzle, you stock-fish--O for breath,
you vile putrid leftover of dead roadkill left on an abandoned highway.
Poisonous hunch backed toad!
Pigeon-liver'd and lacking gall.
Someone who's face is not worth sunburning.
He should be tarred and feathered, buried to his neck in excrement,
peed on by a horde of of overwatered elephants,
left out in the desert next to a fire ant nest with his hands and legs tied
and covered with honey and then the remains burned for a hundred years.
Only then, could we be truly sure he was gotten rid of.