INCENDIARY

I’m tubular.
A cone with no angle.
I’ll wrangle a smile for you.
My fangs will slice your style.
You’ll end up with the dead chicks 
behind the barn in the manure pile.
Crying crystals filled with mercury.
When it feels like plus fifty I
make it feel like minus three.
Rhyme with me.
Set yourself free.
Incendiary.