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Voice From Your Plate
As you cumulate my tiny wodges on the flat trencher,
I ponder if we could have signed an indenture.
For I might partially caress your labial skin,
But my half might end up in the bin.
This grandeur has loaded me with opulence,
For you crave to swank your prominence.
Hath a yeoman didn't garner me from my provenance,
Your deeds wouldn't have forced the world to face the turbulence.
Oh! Your paunch is already brimful ?
But you cascaded me on the paten as if it were just a spoonful.
I ponder if you are a gourmand or a glutton ?
Your nonchalance
hasn't even left the paupers with a sliver of mutton.
As I glassade down from the wooden platter,
The instincts of your turnspit shatter.
The tears teetered down his gill,
Like you jettisoned me in the bin.
Now I squat in wakes of mustiness,
Imagine what if you gave it to him as a largesse.
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A beauteous poem penned down in a rich language depicting the importance of even a single grain of food.