billions bubble the carcasses
of hedge fund managers, pigs, poets,
and priests, sublimely engaging in gaseous feasts,
without complaint, or abstemious restraint  

sans their gargantuan gobbling,
our balanced plain would be littered
with mountains of crap

soft winds would still blow,
searing suns would yet set  
but we would grow tired
of shoveling heaved heaps  
into freshly dug dirt,
if the drosophila did not live
so robustly, and die
without dour dirge