A gloating poem by James Potter.
To make you aware that your dream's at an end.
I don't want you to nurture any false hope,
With undiluted suffering you will now have to cope.
Lily Evans is mine, and mine she will remain,
Not so much as her smile will you ever obtain.
I can hardly see how you could hope that you would,
You, who have the attraction of rotting wood.
While the exquisite sensation of her skin I enjoy,
Masturbating alone will be your only joy.
As my member into her silky crevice I thrust,
You will be slowly driven insane by unresolved lust.
I can feel her breasts whenever I want,
I bet you would like that, Snape, would you not?
It's really a feeling to die for, trust me on that,
Only she doesn't need your death, that's too bad.
You will never have her, Severus Snape,
Unless you break the law and resort to rape.
Not that you'd have the balls to do something like that,
You greasy, pathetic, cowardly Slytherin rat.
Such women as Lily Evans are not for the likes of you,
You are little more than a nasty insect in their view.
They only go for the best, and as such I do qualify:
Good-looking, talented, witty and daring am I.
What I get hold of, I keep, be it a snitch or a snatch,
Do keep that in mind, you filthy Slytherin wretch.
The only reason why you are still alive
Is that on your envy and misery I thrive.
You will be in my thoughts when I shag her next time,
Adding to the sex a pleasure most sublime.
Please don't die of rage when this poem you've read,
You are such a sport, I would not want you dead!