Spontanious Murderous Poetry

This morning while cleaning up the living room (read as damamge control from Large Hulking Son-LHS) I surveyed his mess all over the room. He'd used the lid of the candy dish as an ashtray again, his clothes and dishes were strewn about and as usual, he had left his bedding and pillows tossed on the floor. I spoke aloud my displeasure;

He's used the candy dish lid as an ashtray AGAIN!
I'd like to shoot him,
No, I'd hang him by the neck till he was dead,
He drives me crazy,
He's big and lazy,
And he doesn't make his bed.

What's a mother to do when she is driven to spontaniously generate hate poetry?