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Underthings
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Feast of the Calf
Pantagruel, awake, for it is dusk
Fire glows crimson on the sands
The butchers rest with reddened hands
The smoke of sacrifice ascends
To please the gods!
Bees from the hive, sting you awake
But leave you sweet, with golden dust
They mean to prick your appetite
Goad your throat to lust
Your belly trembles at the scent
At table it is president
The purple sash around your girth
Circumnavigates the earth
The groaning cart has come for you
The ox is decked with scarlet flowers
The fat is hissing on the fire
Warm bread perfumes the air
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The moon shines bright upon the beach
Musicians rent the air
A sword will serve you for a knife
A pitchfork combs your hair
Let hatchet broach the cask of wine
Let black juice fill the bowl
Let steaming meat stand piled high
Smoking innards crown it all
Was there ever any world of such abundance!
Pantagruel, awake, for it is dawn
Fire glows crimson on the sands
The butchers rest with reddened hands
The smoke of sacrifice ascends
To please the gods!
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