Carrion eaters, of dead and rotting flesh, who pick the bones so clean.
Vultures of the air, whom in flight so majestic seem.
Who purge from sight the ugliness of deaths unsightly gore.
And I alone into the heavens, as these mighty birds do soar.
Or is it I and I alone, to whom your beauty hath been seen?
Oh carrion eater, will you pick my bone to clean?
Or have others stared in deaths repose and wondered as you soar
Whos fate is worse, the carrion eaters or the dead and rotting gore
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