He flies with frightful wings of black,
his claws as horrid as his claws;
all dead things, his to devour;
his lusts fiendish, his vices foul.
He seeks the dead, the frail, the dying,
and what is left of lionsprey;
he haunches on that rotting flesh
with the vigor of a river fish.
He with his friends mock the dying;
where the lion sups, they are nearby
on dead, pale branches of dead, pale trees;
the way lions sup, they learn for they see.
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