Confessions Of A Vulture Poem by Buddy Bee Anthony

Vultures aren't Christians.
We aren't Kosher.
We don't give suckers even breaks.
We look for weakness and decay
and slip as happy buddahs
into your game.
We flap our wings and
crane our necks providing you with a great show,
The price of admission is your tender, flesh.
We don't share. You aren't in our clubhouses.
We won't save you when you are drowning.
We are very cunning, and only volunteer
when there is something substantial in it for our flock.
We pretend to be victims, as we fleece you and your other cheek.
We play by our own rules.
We hardly ever lose.
We're odds on favorites to be number one again this year.
Our mascot is a flesh eaten ghoul.
How about a near death experience.
Table for two.
We leave blood on the field
and that blood belongs to guess who?
That's you.
We have confetti,
neon lights,
and a 21 gun salute.
Be careful what you wish for
it might come true.
Your maker rushes you along
with lightening speed, headlong toward your glorious death
Where your White Doves
Heavenly plan comes due..
In a frenzy we feed on consecrated, and annointed,
and succulent, flesh.
This vulture and his crew.


Christian master plan
bleeds through

Buddy Bee Anthony