Sweet In Death

That bilious odour, rotting under skirts,
oozes from man's ejaculate. Reviled,
the putrid are corrupted. They defiled
fat men with gasses, trapped in bedding. Cursed
with spillage from these brothel-stay perverts
and their rancorous nausea, you've trialled
this unwashed guilt in linen. It is piled
high with abusive censure, and the worst,
foul pungency. As morals decompose,
recall whore houses, filthy open sewers,
and the allure of stinkards, whose ripe breath
breeds the exhumation of her cankered rose,
which festers, while your bloated heart procures
vile pasts: the only stench that's sweet in death.