…even if it isn’t great poetry.
It’s a bit of fun from watching the enjoyment with which my little son eats his dinner.
“I don’t deny,” he said, “that there should be priests to remind men that they will one day die. I only say that at certain strange epochs it is necessary to have another kind of priests, called poets, actually to remind men that they are not dead yet.”
― G.K. Chesterton, Manalive
The King
The small stout bairn
Eats with ardor.
Two fisted,
With one meat-grabbing
And the other spoon-gripping,
Feasting Lord-like.
Not in the manner of dainty despots of enlightened ages and Austen novels.
True tyrant he is
He shouts, “mona!”
Mead-hall mannered,
From his high seat, food-flinging,
Until some smile-winning servant
Attends him, cup-bearing.
Sadly, we haven’t hounds to clean the floor.
Puddleglum Contra Mundum 