"Joy To The World"
No Inuit dancer, no clever pilgrim, no unsettled tramp
Will follow the half-hunted animal underneath the tripwire
They return to their atmospheric, bug-hum campfire song,
Waving to the weak bearcat, begging loudly: "Bleed, idiot!"
The thick, foaming marrow of a young kitten,
Curling into a hole, unwelcome and ebbing
It calls for Mother - it calls for a crib, a cradle, a casket
It says, "Meo! Meo! Meo-mow, meo-mar!"
It says, "Culous to me! His arment ar least!"
Splayed, lipless, leafless, dead in the turnip bed
The children examine its empty ocular cavities
And puncture its fly-bait scabs with sharp twigs
They delight in its expiration - O, happy day!
Father will carve it, they know.
For mealtime tomorrow, he will.
So they play with it now, they do.
'Til the cat is boney, boney and brown.
This is Sunday's breakfast-themed breakfast:
The guests will set their books on their laps,
Hold a fork, dip a spoon, and the room will smell of hot syphilus,
Sugar, suasage, and the slimy insides of an egg.