We stop indoors my wife and I:
keep to ourselves, rarely go out.
We have no friends. We are quite shy.
Newspapers, we can do without.
But, once or twice a year, someone
arrives, by chance, and we have fun.
A man, whose car has broken down,
requiring help or telephone;
A salesman with a worried frown
who, foolishly, is on his own
and sometimes even better news:
Jehovah’s Witnesses in twos.
We fetch them in for cakes and tea
then drug them, carry them below
into our cellar, laughingly,
begin to torture them real slow.
then later on, to soothe their aches,
we chop them up for juicy steaks.
Folk always say that life’s a bitch
and then you die: we fix that bit.
We like our diet protein-rich
and human flesh, I will admit,
sliced carefully from a fresh kill,
is truly irresistible.
Edgar Allan Poet
