He met a vulture
Of sculpture
Fine.
To him she did seem divine.
Her words
Would the pretty birds
Charm
And all scruples disarm.

No alarm
He heeded
Though his conscience pleaded,
But none interceded
And the ground was seeded
With a poisoned crop.

Chop, chop
Her beak went
And a heart
Was forever rent.
He played his part
And set it down as art.