You!—with your stifled fragrance of burnt toast
And pilfered ashes from Nero’s furnace, come join
Our severed table of the disrobed and possessed.
For this evening we feast straight from the breast
Of Medusa’s best spawn. We caught the foal
In our stable, licking up a last puddle
Of some vanilla pudding. His buttered
Heart we’ll taste for dessert if you have the
Stomach for that. O!—how these devils
With their nasty splendors and hooks try to
Seize me. They make me put on the grumpy
Skin of the town friar and, limping door
To door, wear it for a mask, which, most times
Leaves me in stitches. O!—why such a face?
[All Rights, Eric Helms)
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