Riffing on comments that the only people who don’t mind the Coroner’s Office conditions are essentially blind.
Underneath the roof there lies
Particle-filled, smelly skies,
Rotting sliced and diced up walls,
Random layouts, long, strange halls,
Up to sixteen cold as ice,
Workers’ health paying the price,
And retired folk working for free.
Underneath this shack of gloom,
Lie the reasons for our doom:
Good intentions crushed and tilled
Over respect which someone killed
And buried there, body laid bare
Without permits, plans, or care.
Atop her grave rests dignity
Caressing his love while dying slowly.