O Friends it pain me though I must confide
this weak and cursed corpus need
must feed on ghosts no longer.
Wizened lady, have you snacks in this your orange jumper?
Who among you has that precious fuel, giving life,
who takes pity on a with’ring hound?
O! Fyre-haired maid
You who carry so the heart of him your ageless golden soldier
Nary a morsel among you for this your poor mongrel?
Fix thine eye upon some greater prize? Forget you the faithful
trusting dane here standing empty, empty.
Did not Garfield win undeserving his lasagna still
out of love? No. Of mutual respect is this pasta borne.
Will no justice live in this machine of myst’ries?
Then die, you mortal human rank, you unmasking
haunted bodies when inside your own lives an other evil
you teenage filth
with conscience hollow
as my howling gut, thunderous cries unheard.
Shaggy, know you in your heart
the number for Dominos?
My paws are weak though my spirit willing ever.
Dial, hero. Dial and order.
Your reward in heaven will be mighty and as many
as there are toppings you can devise.