In My Human Slaughterhouse...

By night I return to the storage shed, Anxious to catch a glimpse of the dead,
Nervously, I unbolt the door, Making my way into this abatoir... Hot air
rushes out the aperture, A putrid gust of flattus and methane, Inhaling the
rotting fumes as I choke, Hit by a wave of nausea I try to restrain... At last
I regard the bloated stiffs, Terribly dislimbed and deceased, My plumpened
prizes now swollen by putrefaction, A makeshift mortuary for the obese...
Their corpulence exceeded solely, By the foulness of their smell, Their girth
only expanded upon in death, The fleshy carcasses bloat and
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