That wretched beast upon the stairs
her child in freefall unaware.
Her tit un-suckled, withered, sags,
she pinching snuff among the lags.
In kettled pots the liquor swills
dispensed as slops by those it kills,
who smiling gasp then beg for more
while treading piss they drank before.
their inane grins on hollowed cheeks
betray the sins they cannot speak.
The barrow boys who fleece the corpse
upend the stiffs with no remorse,
where in the guttered waste they lie
their sated taste has drunk them dry.
© Wolfgar 2020