Hungry Mouths

Like moths they flutter by the flame

Of an elaborate silver candelabrum:

Desperate for warmth,

Churning bellies bloated

By longings for the nectar

Of the gods they so willingly serve.

Disgraceful snuffling snouts

Poking up too close to damask white,

Casting indelicate shadows

That, for lack of breeding,

Nearly snuff the candle that

Illuminates the perfect setting.

Think they to catch the crumbs

The master class lets fall?

Ungrateful wretches, they, to whom

Civilized savoir-faire means not a jot!

We gave them everything, but they want more!

Goodly principles forefend  the forfeit

Of their place at a table laden down

With costly victuals by a master chef…

Decorum  forbid the host refuse

The tithe to which they are entitled!

Beware the prophesy that spins a legacy

Of want where nothing has been shared.

© Nyuka Anaïs Laurent      18 February, 20009