Not, finally, the teeth.
Instead Mrs. McGuckian in her torn house coat
And loose arms revealing an elderly breast
Which tears on the broken window as she comes
Finally inside. We have been waiting
In the audience of smiles for evil to shed
The banality of its uniform, to bow
Politely as the Maitre d of the gas chamber.
For evil is as a polite as bumpkin in a classy restaurant
Smilingly observing the quality of each new dish
Of horrors, some snails, some brains, some ascensions
He, and I mean you, could never otherwise submit to.
Thus the smell of bodies on old clothes
Is more frightening than the actual taste of it, squishing
Over the lips into a stomach-less void of hunger
Instinct pearled around our necks
Like a noose of delicate acquiescence.
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