Stuffed

The table groans under the piles and piles

of grub that we’ve slaved to kill, pluck and

garnish. We dribble with anticipation and

laugh as we chew; the rancid joy of lucid

mastication. Liquid tumbles from jaws that

berate and churn, almost angry at the lack

of posed resistance. Wash it down and feel

the vulgar mulch vanish into your taught

soul. Now we can celebrate! With drunken

arms aloft and soiled attire at our gluttony

we join hands and sing as we sway. We are

sated, for now, until the next bout of

surfeit hunger knocks brazen at our door.

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