I sat down, for dinner, with my demons
As they circled the circumference
Of the oaken table of their choice.
They picked my brain and pounded
Me with insipid pondering—and spoke
In soothing tones whilst whistling
Through their ghoulish grins.
They knew of the exact words
That drove my being—could distress me
And cause a disastrous irking.
The food was bleak, grey slop
That they thought I should be fed.
They gallivanted hither and thither,
With jovial jabs every now and then,
Fitfully, at my expense. Monsters!
They asked me questions I neither
Cared to answer, nor wished to consider—
For the fiends dehumanized me and
Stole a piece of my being. They
Convinced me to steal them secrets,
And sacred stories I should not,
Under any circumstance, have be hearing.
Those vile creatures captured me,
With their whispering and foregone tales.
They covered me with lesions and forgot,
At the dinner table, to serve dessert.
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