| By night I return to the storage shed, Anxious to catch a glimpse of the dead
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| Nervously, I unbolt the door, Making my way into this abatoir… Hot air
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| Rushes out the aperture, A putrid gust of flattus and methane, Inhaling the
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| Rotting fumes as I choke, Hit by a wave of nausea I try to restrain… At last
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| I regard the bloated stiffs, Terribly dislimbed and deceased, My plumpened
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| Prizes now swollen by putrefaction, A makeshift mortuary for the obese…
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| Their corpulence exceeded solely, By the foulness of their smell, Their girth
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| Only expanded upon in death, The fleshy carcasses bloat and swell…
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| Postmortem hypertrophy plagues the hefty cadavers, Their portly bodies now
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| Thoroughly dead, The incessant buzzing of insects as necrovores slaver, Fills
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| The tepid chamber whose walls I’ve stained red… I hacked through their
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| Layers of blubbering fat, Some were gutted, some punctured, some razed, When I
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| Finished I found them decidedly flat, If not yet dead, then at least bleeding
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| And dazed… In this dingy shack I had left them to rot, And then departed the
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| Undignified scene, The makeshift crypt they inhabit now fetid and hot, The
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| Curdling innards turned a sickly shade of green |