Vultures, they're going to hate.
Dead inside, like the things they ate.
If it's you I'm talking to, choke on the bones you pick and chew.
Share it around with your old world friends, until it's your own blood dripping from their old world grins.
Then when your innards cross my plate, save your pleads, it's much too late.
For It will not be my mouth into which you go, but left as scraps for the beast lurking in the corner who's name is:
'I told you so.'