What More Can You Add To A Banquet Of Flies? Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

What more can you add to a banquet of flies?
Other than your own stiff, pale body when you're dead.
Greyish, opaque eyes bubbling like tarmac to the skies.
Some things in this life need little help -utilising others.
It has to be admired, but how often is it scorned?
It's like, who the hell do you think you are?
By this same rule of thumb,
These people want to squish you.
They want only to squash you like a dying fly.
With no other wish than to watch you squirm and die.
But yet pretend to be earnestly your best friend.

Sadly, all too often, it can be the ones
You're most likely to trust unreservedly
Put all your faith blindly into.
A friend, your immediate family, your mother and father,
A husband or a wife. That is why it is important.
To be humble but independent
Like a ravenous blowfly in this messed-up world.
Join the banquet table by all means if you must.
But be either the first or last.
To get a true picture, a measure
Else wave a white flag of surrender at half-mast
And beg at the same table
To be a maggot kissing everybody's else's arse.