You swim around in your clear bowl
Dirty water you made yourself
Expecting us to grasp your floating
Carcass.
When you drown
When the bubbles subside
We must be the ones to
Drop your deceased set of
Bone
And
Scale
Down the porcelain grave.
And clean out your clear bowls
Riddled with sickness and unhealth
While children cry
Even though they are the ones
Who let you die.
Grime infested water
from flakes
Of your remains and nourishment.
God, I hate the fair.
For making me deal with you
And your inevitable death
In two weeks to come.
