Rotting meat
Rotting carrots
Stench of time gone wrong.

A venue of wasted decaying hours
Ringing gilded bells -

Itching, scratching wool;
Facades of bright crimson lights
And silly white doilies,
All to distract you from the rotting meat
That sits in your mouth.

And even the shopkeeper has rotted:
Eyes swollen, hay hair,
Stray hairs in the soup,
Solid fists,
Words with a lisp,
And teeth always ready to bite a penny.

And all for a stubborn old life
Who cannot even seem to claim her blame
For this decaying shop.