The mule of two delicious fruits
sits solemnly on the stand,
awaits its doom amongst the flutes,
the slow dirge of the damned.

Stolid, showing no emotion,
cut into by knife
so brilliant in its slicing motion,
relieving it of life.

Piece by piece it shrivels down,
the phosphorescent glow.
Surprisingly, a split is found:
The Morbid Tangelo.

Upon entry into the mouth,
perhaps upon a dare,
The Morbid Tangelo is Death
and unceasing despair.