Stale

The Funeral Fairy Cakes
were fine on the day
Stodgy sickly comfort rammers
to drink with my Martini.
I've kept four in a tin
withering
like you
injected with sugar
like you
wearing fuck you fancy dress.
Butterfly cakes would have been more fitting
I could watch them soar
to the great cake cloud in the sky.
These four
will be buried in my garden
in the rusting Roses prison
patted with earth and words
with the cliched scratched one
just above the surface.

Perhaps the word will change over time.