Turn Right, Go Down The Stairs
A baseball cap
makes a pisspoor halo.
A feather tongue-glued on a tailored shoulder
will never pass as an angel's wing
nor that grating stream of spite
shake a celestial harp to sing.
The curved and cutting beak
and steel-clawed feet,
the avid greed with which you feed
on flesh of the damned and weak
are marks of something different altogether.
For the fall of the fourth year,
the vultures gather.
Top photo, courtesy Reuters
American Black Vultures at Carcass source
Manipulated. No copyright infringement intended