Serenade of Maggots

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A serenade of chittering maggots,

devouring death's bitter habits.

Through flesh and bone we chew,

breaking down the gifts of birth.

Burrowing through soil to rend them askew,

death's insanity writhes with pulsating mirth.

All life must die,

to the tune of the funeral march we rise.

The murder of one is the feast of another,

a rotting eye for a starving mouth.

All life must be smothered,

we will await them all in the deepest south.

The gift of life is that it always ends the same,

they will be returned to whence they came.

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