Fate makes no exceptions.
Once, as a man, I too was deluded into that
Feeling of false-security.
I thought myself unconstrained by the whims of nature.
Sustenance was plentiful and gained with scarce effort;
Its source never had much meaning to me,
Nor did I ever fear that which now you must surely dread.
But it was a dull life, actually,
So I killed myself,
Thinking to break the circle of disillusion.
Well, I think you know the story—
The Church has long excommunicated suicides,
And since audience was denied with He above,
It fell to my lot to bear the sentence you see before you.
I guess, quite frankly, I'd call it an improvement.
It's a rather cynical way to make a living, but
The Hunger and the Hunt
Keep me from sulking too profusely
As I did in my living days.
There's an old Russian saying that says that
Hunger is the best spice,
And I know this to be truth.
It's like the sex drive:
There is desire, and an understood goal.
Unlike the sex drive, though,
You know this desire stems from necessity,
And this gives your life a definite meaning and purpose.
Ah, how vain for you to shudder!
But I suppose it is the nature of the hunted,
And as the gazelle must hate and fear the lion,
So you must hate and fear me.
Thus Fear is Nature's primal wisdom,
But before terminating this rather unequal relationship,
I would have you know that it's nothing personal.
So, if you'll pardon me,
I am famished and must now
Consummate my feral nature.
My last words to you are a choice:
Share in my sentence,
Or sleep like the rest.
George Chadderdon © 1994