This is a recent poem that I wrote called “The Snake”.

"The Snake" The stink of him was much like bugs, But not of butterflies or slugs, Or stings of honeybees that kill, Those people set so free, so still, Of things like dying, things like bugs, When set apart, consuming dung, Ashen flowers, ashen bugs, Had all been set apart to love, The lick and stink of death, decay, And none were freed none otherway, He went ahead with prickly lust, Who is like God as ageless rust, His stony face towards the sky, So ever seeing he could fly, Yet as the seagull, as the tit, He not above too had to shit.