Coiling, writhing, shivering slops.
They choke and gnaw at his life, devouring everything yet omitting his body from their teeth, avowing through their undulating language his audience for the feast.
The man, free of the maggots from his skin, beholds the worms wriggling and dancing through his food, inbetween his pressed shirts, inside his furniture.
Engorging their swollen white selves 'til they've burst.
Distended stomachs bloat throughout the little snakes' numbers, the man ever hungry.
Even when he dies, and he will before long, no maggot will lay tongue on his corpse.
He will not be touched.
No lesson would be learned.
Nor would one be taught.