march

 

bon appetit, you fortune-favoured
seekers of decay and death
who writhe and burrow deep within
the tender folds of shedding skin

tell cast-off tales of never-was
to see the quest for truth begin
your blinded eyes still turning in
will search for evidence of sin

all hail the unclean knife and fork
that carves another slice of pork
and wipes with right, the left reserved
to wave a banner high and proud
and chant the names of saints aloud

march further: see the fat retreat
from flabby thighs – such tender meat -
the marshals beat a gentle pace
in this almighty master race

but clever children, you save face
and claim to walk in light and grace
removed from human ignorance
by some bright badge of tolerance

so sweet: you condescend to speak
to those considered low and meek
from high upon your lofty bough
that fleshy ass won’t save you now
if chance should realign your place
from high to low (that's quite a way)
and broken bones on judgment day
will surely prejudice your chance
of fiddling your circumstance:

a word or two to misconstrue
intent and motive ought to do
but don’t forget to dot your eyes
someone is always watching you