OUR DELICACY

What an attractive stench!

Only foreigners invited

For homers are already in great attendance

At the filthiest feast of our time.

Our delicacy

Consists of the most despicable;

Numberless crates of b-r-o-k-e-n, rotten eggs

Of dead and decaying vultures.

Soup made of phlegm for appetiser;

Golden bowls of assorted excreta

And sparkling vomit-maggot blend;

With bottles of urea for dessert.

The venue is a grand brothel.

The venue is heavily packed.

The venue is hermetic.

The venue is fart-full.

Everyone eats and drinks of these

Our delicacy!

The waiters and waitresses

Are young and promising prostitutes and gigolos.

ALL NUDE!

Fangless snakes protruding from the men;

Pink, dark tunnels in between the women.

Everyone is stained everywhere

With whitish liquid substances-

Some thick, some thin.

Everyone is somewhere except Home.

We all are here:

The Clean and the Dirty;

The foetal, we and the dead-

Their corpses and the stench of their corpses

Serving as basic ingredients of our meals-

Experiencing our delicacy!

There is nowhere here to go.

There is no rush to arrive or leave.

There is neither day nor night.

The weak and hungry are in their places

Working to send their sweat to the Evil Party.

Amidst us

Few die unremarkably,

Still we ravage

Our delicacy.

Some do puke words of ice, and fire

But none pukes appropriate action.

BON APPETIT!