Circle The Soul And Wait For Misery, Then Feast. Poem by King Happy

Bus 56.
Westbound to a magic kingdom
we rode upon a luscious swale
with a dozen or so vultures
perched upon the rail-
and within this bus;
they're sitting in their seats
wings spread and tempers flared
the stench of rotting meat.

Low wages and lost hopes
true vultures hunt this ride
pretending to be human
waiting for me to die

but I'm also waiting,
and for them too.
Which is to say,
that I don't mind
when they do.