Fashioned from flesh, an infinite source of meats,
My children flock, to this familiar feast,
never suspecting, their love for me is blinding,
to them a saint, the doting hand that feeds,
but history will mark me as a beast,
Hiding my true nature, whilst amongst the sheep,
like lambs to slaughter upon them I will feast,
watching the lost wander, without direction,
I bless them with purpose, to be my sustenance
In my kitchen countless victims, I dine upon them, and dredge their shame
carving the flesh from their bones so tenderly
I have mastered the art of butchery,
all my victims, selected carefully,
I document them and then preserve their organs,
I claim the best, the finest cuts for me,
I stew the rest, and feed it to the pure
never think to question, the source of this treat,
unwitting communion, of this divine cuisine