I feast on the bones
In the shade of the grave
In the eve, by the
Light of the moon;
The pale moon,
White, like the bones
Which I chew.
I tear at the gristle
Of each sinew.
I gorge on the bones,
and feast on the meat.
Ah, what a treat,
So sweet, to eat the
Flesh that hangs on
The bones.
Oh, how I LOVE the
CRACK, and the SNAP, and
the sound of each tendon that
POPS, as I pull
The fleshy curtain
From it's skeletal rod,
To peer in the window
Of each man's soul,
And SNACK on his
FLESH as I go.
What pleasure I find when
Nothing is there, though
This is common to find,
For SOMETHING is rare.
The darker the soul
The fuller the feast, and
Best is the man who lives
Like a beast. His flesh is
So tender from indulgent
Behavior, and his heart is
Unseasoned by salt of the
Savior.
