He can't awake. A wake of buzzards wait to start a wake.
Their drive is like a nebu coat; this finish will not flake.
Their metal beaks and stomach parts can eat his boots and bone.
In death he'll bleed and come apart till lungs and heart are shown.
They peck his offal pieces, rend a mess of peccant flesh.
When mashed, those awful pieces plainly being can refresh.
Cathartes aura lend cathartic aura, cloak of light,
Impart a spiny outline--shining shreds till things are right.
I left my prior self to die when ire cleft my poise.
I dosed him with a sarin-ade to drown unruly noise.
No dirge he will deserve, digestive tract has been reserved.
Disgraceful temper shat to ground--no bit of youth preserved.