Beelzebub’s Feast
Under The Floorboards / 7DS
The delicate, rich flavors
of everything mingle in my mouth.
A feast of my own creation.
It matters not what’s served
or where it comes from.
Just pass the plate.
Refill the glass.
Someone once said, “Let them eat cake,”
though I can’t recall who.
A foolish notion, I’m sure.
Why waste the cake on the idle masses
who merely warm their seats?
What you can’t finish, discard.
Don’t share a single crumb.
If they want some,
let them fend for themselves.
Come now, just one more bite.
Let it slide down.
Feeling queasy? No matter.
Purge if you must. Start anew.
There are starving souls everywhere,
begging in the streets.
You should take their share, stuff it down.
Why care for those you’ll never know?
Feel your skin stretch.
Your stomach stretch.
Drool dripping from your chin.
Cleanse your face with gravy
mixed with a touch of spit.
Those left to starve–
they’re too thin for my taste.
I prefer my meal
to be richly fleshed out.
Let’s take these rotting apples
and force them between your teeth.
Place you on the spit
like a choice cut of meat.
Roar up some more hellfire.
I like my feast well done.
Turn the spit, roast you whole.
A banquet fit for one.