The Rot

Atop a rolling hill, amid an aged cemetery,

Find we these gentlemen three:

A nameless man, Mr. Cage, and me.

‘Twas on a point of taste, you see,

Upon which they could not agree.

“There’s nothing greater,” argued the man,

“Than a good ol’ ‘tater!”

“You know not,” retorted Mr. Cage,

“The pleasures of rot.”

“Sir, I refute what you claim,

The wonders of tubers let me explain—

From the vileness of meat you must refrain!”

“Oohoo! ‘Tis the character of flesh you endeavour to blame!”

Mr. Cage tugged at the man’s garish mane.

“Your inane reproaches are all but in vain.

From your bones will your lifeless flesh rot,

And I’ll tie your entrails all in a knot.”

“Sir, from your mind these ideas you must blot—

This body, these entrails—they’re all that I’ve got!”

At this Mr. Cage bounded with glee,

For he liked nothing more than a desperate plea.

“Hoohoo! Cry as you may, you’ll hear what I say:

The piper has come, and it’s now time to pay!

It seems quite fitting, that where you’re sitting,

Once come light of day,

Will forever-more be where you lay.

So, sit there and pray,

On your bed of decay.

This is your lot—your burial plot!

Ooh, don’t sigh; don’t whine and don’t cry,

Lest with my fingers I pluck out your eye.

Never you fret—you’re not underground yet!

I’ll first have some fun, my delectable pet.

Mmm … and when all’s said and done,

When this yarn I have spun,

For a moment forget not,

Your flesh, your entrails, will all rot.

Mmm … and you’ll bubble and bloat,

And I’ll rip out your throat,

And you’ll burst like confetti,

Your gut like spaghetti,

With your blood you will paint,

This bust of a saint,

And it’ll all be so quaint,

So, you’d better not faint!”

Turning to me,

Mr. Cage bounded with glee

At the things I would see …

Here I’ll end this story,

Before it gets gory,

And this tale of dread,

Goes straight to his head.