Swallowing and gurgling we're stuffing our faces
Little we absorb that is worth shoving down our throat
We have given up on good food, a sordid doom
Those marinated oysters with lettuce bedding underneath
That cocky little pheasant, with stuffing innerneith
Its life spent, it awaits our claws
For this, for everything, we are out of mood
It moves us not.-OMG! I'd rather be
an Afghan, laying in a cave, unknown
So that I might, laying on a bed of straw
Have visions of 12 course dinners that would make me less woebegone
Have divinations of Alain Ducasse and Paul Bocuse
Or witness old and gone Keith Floyd jingle-jangle his spoon and fork
Have visions of 12 course dinners that would make me less woebegone
Have divinations of Alain Ducasse and Paul Bocuse
Or witness old and gone Keith Floyd jingle-jangle his spoon and fork
