The lady.

Feast

Like hungry vultures
who congregate, to feed,
on corpses and rotting meat
They swooped down from the skies,
On a dead branch of a tree
with expensive glitter on their eyes
To partake in a meal of bodies,
of old rotting thoughts that emanated
A rancid olfactory distress.
It drove all pleasant bees away.
Attracted a business of buzzing flies.
A place where rotting flesh held sway,
A place of disintegrating sinew and lies.

They partook in that hearty feast,
digesting rotting sinew and bones.
When they could not get more of it.
They ate all the innocent flies.

Their laughter bellowed in the air,
Gave the place an air of despair,
To clear the rancid olfactory distress
They pumped some perfume on their dress.

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