Fallen Poet Angels Poem by Dead Beat Poet

It’s killing time in purgatory for devils down on their luck.
A fresh delivery of fallen angels was recently made in a very large truck,
Every one clean as a mirror not a bloody feather left to pluck.

The banquet is beginning everyone put up your pitchforks and feet.
Bring us something red to drink and make feather pillows for our seat.
At this table we use our hands and the only thing to eat is meat.

Bring out an angel this time alive it is our favorite dining beast.
Grinding the bones into powdery dust then snort with those you hate least.
Drinking blood wine that was left over from the last fairy feast.

As a starter for the table fondue the fingers from the left hand.
Strip the meat from the limbs and throw it in a pile with the little lost lamb.
Add some salt send it to Earth then call it sausage and spam.

The cheeks and tongue go to the sushi bar down by the empty bay.
The gourmet parts are the eyes and heart but these are too much for one day.
We sit them on a pedestal instead and love to watch as they decay.

Take the head and stick it on a spike then just put it with the others.
When the rot has worn away we take the heads to their morning mothers.
They then make molds and with them cast three-faced political brothers.

From the hair we make pretty whigs and send them to the entertainment stages.
With their skin our bodies are covered and there are plenty more of them living in cages.
For just deserts we send their spirits to the poets who with them fill the pages.