The Fat Man's Fare

Sup with me upon feathered pillows

And we will gorge ourselves, laboring not.

Our feast is the sweat of oafs and serfs

And our drink the pressed wine of virgin's feet.

Come, let us forget our folly

And the doom which knocks even now at the door.

For we are the chosen

And they are left to inherit our crumbs.

Let no sadness enter our feast

Nor ill bowels growl at the roast beast,

For now, is the night of pleasure...

And tomorrow never comes.