They pick and they pull us apart,
roasting chestnuts over an open fire.
Insert their fingers to rip out our hearts,
we taste good to some of their desires.
They beat and stir us together,
bake us in a waiting hot oven.
The icing as thick as a feather,
we're enjoyments of a chefs coven.
Food for thought,
or are we food?
I don't know but now I'm hungry.
-
Author:
Maplespal (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: April 29th, 2026 05:01
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 3
Offline)
Comments1
Clever cannibalistic chatter contrived in this fun read
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