‘Tis the deepest hour of sorrow when the vultures choose to gather,
And they ‘mass in the channelled air above ‘ pink-tasselled ratha,
As it rattles ‘cross the plain with the souls of the dead
To the pyre on the hill where compassion will be bled.
The vultures ‘re’a flock of darkness ‘cross black-starred skies,
The parasites of biomass and plunderers of prize,
Devils at the slaughter and smokers at the tomb,
‘Monic surgeons ‘secting ‘side the operating room.
The golden logs ‘n place of pride were stacked with such chaste care,
But serene and untroubled seem they, no burden do they bear,
No bodies of the faithless who were stolen from this world,
No souls from logs’ interment mound now into hell be hurled.
The carriage now’ly finds the pyre and mortals la’d above,
The fire kindled, coaxed and chivvied, courtesy of ‘love’,
Then left to burn and smoke and char are carcasses dispensed:
The banquet of the vultures is now to be commenced.
They feast on spirits dear and sweet and pollen of the mind,
They cackle as they’re laughing, humanity maligned.
They convoy souls down to dim fate in smugness cavalier,
And ratha in the distance with the horses dripping fear.