If you do it twice, it’s a tradition!
When nibbeling on brainstems and men’s eyes
Such nourishment betrays uneasy state:
Not dead, nor living, summoned by the cries
Of those whose hearts beat yet, bewailing fate
Which makes them prey to us, who lack all hope.
Perhaps we are ensorcelled, or possess’d
By demons who can have no further scope
Than tempt despair, of all our sins the least,
And waken in our minds our own despising.
We were the same as you, of mortal state,
Once buried and once mourned, arising
To shamble through the lich-yard’s rusting gate.
We eat of meats unclean; one truth that brings:
A poor man’s offal tastes the same as king’s.