What tasted honey returned putrified.
What slid down cream has come up hell.
Sickness heaved the vile to the ground,
And there it rancors; sludge and smell.
I could limp away, the better for the lesson.
I could stop and stay, disgusted by the memory.
I should turn my eyes to tables righteous laden
And never wish the sin that caused the wretch in me.
But back to the waste I return –
Back to the gagging, sour fog.
I extend my tongue to sample the sick.
I choke it down – for I am the dog.