Widow Under Vulture Fire and Ire

Circling and spying over aching heads Vultures swoon and pick the flesh Spotted from sunken skies on beds Where distended bellies in a crèche Bellies moan and groan Under attack by bevies of vultures Mourn Lost sanity cultures Hitherto quiet Tranquil On a diet Administered with gusto on a quill That strafing vultures who snatch a widow’s Car, house, kitchen utensils Cash at the bank, a photograph on her bedroom’s door Pencils and stencils Asking the widow why English dominated discourse In her home when they visited from the village Where three-course Meals knew a siege That vultures accused the widow Of instigating by remote control In every clean window In their deceased brother’s bedroom played a role In his demise Vultures accused the widow of engineering In the prize The widow extracted from the sneering The widow’s nose in her attitude Reflected In the ingratitude Deflected From their generosity Which in the vultures’ considered view Existed not in their brother’s home in the city Vultures dreaded to visit because they knew Not how the widow cruel In demeanour Filled with in her fuel Of misdemeanor Would deny vultures morsels of beef Tea with rancid bread Served with a stiff Attitude ahead Of a plethora of scorn Heaped on vultures with a haughty gait As the widow with her penchant for **** An ingrained trait In her faulty figure Would inflict On vultures with snigger In every ounce of contempt the widow inserted in her relish for conflict.