The Bitter Fruit of Verdant Boughs

In times of Eden, golden fruits hang high,

Grotesque in form, in sloth-received embrace,

Fair disguise hides the curdled taste within,

Their flesh turns quick to rot when paired with dawn.

Repellent perfume mourns of virtues lost,

Texture lest more than spawn of mushy decay,

Bane to firm and sturdy biting taste,

Gat not from fair nor gentle orchard's pride,

Consuming dread and arched repulse bestow,

On palate clothed in vilest residue.