Last Supper


That’s the last of it

So well fed

So full

We dined on shanks

Meat on the bone

We partake of kidney pie

And blood soup

All the delicacies

On which we dined

So that’s it

Now we’re on the hunt, again

For if we don’t find the next unsuspecting foe

We will wrangle in agony

Not able to quench our thirst for the iron wine

Or calm our savaged hunger for the raw

The oh so pleasant taste

For flesh

Fresh from the bone

© Dicky J Loweman 2014