The Glutton

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He, hunger-strung, hard to slake,So fitted is for my black luck(With heat such as no man could haveAnd yet keep kind)That all merit's in being meatSeasoned how he'd most approve;Blood's brothFilched by his hand,Choice wassail makes, cooked hot,Cup...

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He, hunger-strung, hard to slake,
So fitted is for my black luck
(With heat such as no man could have
And yet keep kind)
That all merit's in being meat
Seasoned how he'd most approve;
Blood's broth
Filched by his hand,
Choice wassail makes, cooked hot,
Cupped quick to mouth;
Though prime parts cram each rich meal,
He'll not spare
Nor scant his want until
Sacked larder's gone bone-bare.

He, hunger-strung, hard to slake,So fitted is for my black luck(With heat such as no man could haveAnd yet keep kind)That all merit's in being meatSeasoned how he'd most approve;Blood's brothFilched by his hand,Choice wassail makes, cooked hot,Cup...

Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Sylvia Plath PoetryWhere stories live. Discover now