I'm a believer

I saw death depressed, in a rut, recumbent,
silk shroud slipping off a greasy paunch
Spotted with spit and the flesh of chicken
deep fried in palm wine, which he now and then
Licked at to soothe a chapped underlip, all the
while regarding with envious haste a haunch
Of pork that lay wasted on the prophet, who
but sat instead philosophizing on women
And the general impropriety of underclothes