THE FEAST
                                  

Upon the table lined of silver, and napkins neatly laid, chairs are placed each with label, all beautifully displayed. The room is lit by candle stick neatly placed for feel, so the glow flickers upon the face who has come to be the meal. The others stand stern and right with a full craving appetite, waiting for his pinkish skin to peel. He gently climbs upon the table, and takes the center place, then wine is brought by the things in a large wooden case. Next to his chest lies the carving knife.  He reaches to take hold, but slips and cuts his finger on the silvery shiny cold. Blood falls upon cloth while those in waiting lick their lips, with some sucking their finger tips, thinking him so bold. With knife in hand, he carefully places it upon his beating chest, cutting in ever so thin, trying to do his best. His screams become the background sound of a beautiful sonnet played, and his look of terror becomes the norm as there on the table he stayed. Streaks of blood now flow from the main course like butter on a lightly carved ham, they know now it is time to feast, for they have sacrificed their lamb. So they neatly sit with napkins fit, and glasses with pieces of lime, they each commence to take their slice, for now it is dinner time.