Rotten Fruit

You're rotten fruit: a feast for hungry worms;
A banquet for the maggots; they have built
Such vulgar appetites by taking turns
To crawl for endless hours, as you wilt;

You sweat a living foment: you can cough,
Regurgitating bile from your throat;
If you're brought withered blooms to see you off,
Don't smile politely: let your belly bloat;

They'll breathe in puss: it is sweet recompense
For over eager vultures; your last breath
Rasps noxious fumes; and it spares no expense
To drag your carcass to a bilious death;

It's your enormity, you graceless brute;
Your testament; you feast of rotten fruit...