The Vulture Poem by Patti Masterman
The Vulture
The vulture that is me
Broods condescendingly
Over each praising word, that come;
Or lack of same; the selfish turds!
No harpoon could ever reach me
Up here in this tree; impeach me.
Though I may smell bad, now this is true,
My dinner's not the same as you;
Live on carrion, not table fare
And in my grub, might find some hair.
Can take to air, to fly with speed:
Because my gullet-soul's pure greed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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5/7/2024 9:04:35 PM # 1.0.0.1119
