A crust o' bread. Pastries o' lead. Any'hin', tae line the coffin; I call't a stomach. Fae a brimmin', ale-filled tankard cup. And, nae longer cawin' crows in me hands be worth twa, and, sixpence, flush.

Eatin' sins, before the Lord,
frae a sinist'r, smorgasbord.
Me gnashin' gams, offer, bless'd relief.
Tae the dearly, and, sometimes,
nearly, depart'd. Distasteful reminders, o' the ugliest natures, we be seldom confessin', tae tak part in.

It's a piece o' cakie!

Ev'ry morsel, I have nestled,
in me decayin' spaghetti-faced beard,
is givin' solace, to the pious, and, unholy,
the kind-heart'd, and, fear'd.

Fae each, flagon o' hate, I imbibe,
each, transgression, I consume,
a burden rises, like a baker's loaf, frae inside, them. And, descends deep in tae me graveyard guts; a Hadean plume.

Shunned, and, sheemed, by those bitin' begrudg'rs, sco'ned, and, defamed. Doon, Hansel, and, Gretel Lane, I'm trudgin'. Followin' that doomed crumb-age. Me heart's in me mooth, each mournin', bludgeon'd, as I chews the fat o' those snarlin' judges.

Ye tho' I warks, and, stalks,
ca' throu' the valley,
o' the scarrow o' death.
Youse ken the smell,
o' each fall, frae grace,
ev'ry vice, on me rott'n,
rank, reekin' vagabond breath.

© poormansdreams