Ice cold eyes
Staring at you.
Surrounded by flies,
Decaying, too.
It's head on platter.
As you walk by
The flies will scatter,
For they are shy.
Skin's been toasted,
The fat has been broiled.
Meat is toasted,
It lies in tin foil.
We want to eat,
And will soon devour
The poor thing's meat
At this very hour.
No comments:
Post a Comment