O Where Is My Feast?

O where is my feast?

 Where are my pitchers of wines

Being generously drunk by

Intellectuals and swines?

Where are my bards from far off lands,

And my servants

Awaiting my spit flying commands?

 O where is my feast?

 I grow tried of the roaches

That squirm in my bed,

And the terrible thoughts

That lie in my head.

The cracks in my hands.

The pain in my neck.

The constant demands,

And lack of respect.

 O Where is my feast?

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Writing is all I want to do.

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