The Spoils

SAVAGES have often fed
On their foemen lying dead,
Thus absorbing (say they all)
The bravery of those who fall.
Little do they know or feel
All the ingredients of the meal. . . .
Other virtues, other sins,
Vitamins and mortimins,
Are absorbed throughout the night
Following the feast and fight.

By an imperceptible dose
Men become what they oppose;
There is many a Trojan horse
In that harmless roasted corse,
And thus the enemy though slain
Filters agents through the brain.
Eating dead totalitarians,
Who have not become barbarians?

Where’s the sting of death? Why, there
In that body’s mocking stare
As who should say without a breath:
“You, my foe, are eating death.
Thus you die and thus I live.”
The Apothecary’s Alterative
Might redirect this fell nutrition,
But savages have no Physician.