A reply to a fine but misguided poet

To see, of the twenty odd dead, the one I'd myself made--hadn't I
 for my part, you'd say, well done it, too as being evil as you?--
  means not to see it, at all     Thank you for that, sir

Now I'll give you, the deep stare, onyx-eyed, of the mother
ghoulish botox lip   bodycolour best not seen smudged on walls,
   Billy & Pat, dead both, and abscesses   tending to the heart:--

 if it's not too impertinent to, say, feel the tyke shatter (or be cupped
in a teacher's smile!), and the viscous prayers ever after, paraded
 on stage ever after (as if it's this they do the shootings for)

You well-meaning old Adam, you and thanx for the boyishness
in us all  and making me see, and the buoyant barbarism in us
 all, making smiling onyx-eyed demons tolerable even to me

                      A tip of the fedora to you, good sir