The Voice From Your Plate

{The rage arises with blood in my eyes as I look at the World’s Food Crisis and then the oblivious nature of the world citizens}

As you cumulate my tiny wodges on the flat trencher,

I ponder if we could have signed an indenture.

For I might partially caress your labial skin,

But my half might end up in the bin.

This grandeur has loaded me with opulence,

For you crave to swank your prominence.

Hath a yeoman didn’t garner me from my provenance,

Your deeds wouldn’t have forced the world to face the turbulence.

Oh! Your paunch is already brimful ?

But you cascaded me on the paten as if it were just a spoonful.

I ponder if you are a gourmand or a glutton ?

Your nonchalance

hasn’t even left the paupers with a sliver of mutton.

As I glassade down from the wooden platter,

The instincts of your turnspit shatter.

The tears teetered down his gill,

Like you jettisoned me in the bin.

Now I squat in wakes of mustiness,

Imagine what if you gave it to him as a largesse.

Imagine what if you gave it to him as a largesse.

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