The times I have told, the withered and old, their smell can only be masked, by a skunk.
The untimely demise, of all you despise, laid out on a golden platter.
Say what is the matter? all green and queasy, your eyes on your hand, gripping and oozey.
Letting rip on them all, ones that made you a fool, and dragged you through the depths of hell.
Too much may I add, for the poor old dad, that suffered with stress, and in turn regressed, to the miserable sod that started it all in the first place.