Like moths they flutter by the flame
Of an elaborate silver candelabrum:
Desperate for warmth,
Churning bellies bloated
By longings for the nectar
Of the gods they so willingly serve.
Disgraceful snuffling snouts
Poking up too close to damask white,
Casting indelicate shadows
That, for lack of breeding,
Nearly snuff the candle that
Illuminates the perfect setting.
Think they to catch the crumbs
The master class lets fall?
Ungrateful wretches, they, to whom
Civilized savoir-faire means not a jot!
We gave them everything, but they want more!
Goodly principles forefend the forfeit
Of their place at a table laden down
With costly victuals by a master chef…
Decorum forbid the host refuse
The tithe to which they are entitled!
Beware the prophesy that spins a legacy
Of want where nothing has been shared.
© Nyuka Anaïs Laurent 18 February, 20009