Hang on, stitching together your page...
No, I don’t agree and never will.
Loathing for his smug and puffed-up preening
makes my words come recklessly careening.
Here’s the simple pattern of my meaning:
its inventor should be killed.
I can see you are your mother’s daughter.
Quite a tantrum, dear, yes quite a scene!
But because it’s death on which you’re keen
I will tell you who made this machine.
It’s none other than your father.