Never was there an odor more vile and vulgar than a whiff of this guy that I knew. His face was a beet, had melons for feet and he’d eat live cats while they mewed
Hardly 5’3’’, much thinner than me, his appetite bordered on lewd
Ate himself into jail and emptied his pail, screamed, threatened and begged for more food
His life was short and strange
Remembered by too few
Comment-allez vous?
Does hell have better food?
Once he ate 2 dozen snakes and washed it all down with a bull
All this in one sitting while groaning and shitting and praying in vain to feel full
Back out on the street, his sentence complete, he came by to borrow my pencil
He said he’s meeting his face, lamenting the date he devoured that golden utensil
His life was short and strange
Remembered by too few
Comment-allez vous?
Does hell have better food?
His epitaph neatly printed, he strained, struggled and squinted
Though he was widely despised, neighbors pitied his cries and had him hospitalized
Making iron but no precious metal, nothing could improve his fettle
A morphine drip and some water to sip, and they saw that his affairs were settled
Hungry beyond all reason, he slipped out the infirmary’s yard
Found dead on the street, mouth full of raw meat, amid rumors he dined in the kids’ ward
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