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