Poem #6: A Serenade For Cardinal W.

(I was summoned to recite my poetry before The Archbishop Of Canterbury. I journeyed to Croydon, a summer palace not far from my home, which was used as a retreat by the Archbishop during the warmer months. I had launched into a recital of "I Bought A Cheese And thought Of You", yet soon became distracted by the boorish display from Cardinal W. I watched in horror as the Cardinal devoured not one, nor two, but three whole chickens. Great, meaty, slurping noises dispatched from his lips, and he washed down the meat with great obscene gulps of vintage. The servant boys seemed rightfully fearful of him, as he kicked at them whene're they allowed his chalice to empty past half-full. As I watched this display of corpulance and corruption, a poem formed in my head, and cascaded out of my mouth. If it appears unfinished, it is. I had to flee Croydon.)



Serenade For Cardinal W.

That’s right, fatty, pack it in.
You may never see such food again.
Behold! The veal. The tripe. The lamb.
Grab it with thy porky hands!
Open wide and shove it down.
By the fistful. By the pound.
For every moment you’re not feeding
Is time you've wasted by not eating.
When there's no food and your belly's aching,
Feed upon thine own back-bacon.
Chew the blubber ‘neath your chin.
I'm sure there's nutrients within.
Could any crumb escape your fork?
You’d eat a hammer wrapped in pork.
Don’t stop to rest. Don’t stop to breath.
Nor wipe thy waddle on thy sleeve.
Just cram it in, and do it now!
You godforsaken two-ton cow.
Fatty fatass fatsalot!
What’s cooking in your fatass pot?