What a comfort to be
the carrion hound–
To know that wherever I'm led,
there's bound to be pickings.

When the master calls–
running, I come running
for stinking flesh to gorge upon
and bones to gnaw and gnarl.
(and maybe a piece
of something nice… eh?)

My thoughts wander
the kitchen of the night,
And I hear them,
Desperately foraging,
hunting, killing, hiding,
growling, yelping, dying
at the hands of a merciful god.
And I know, sure as thunder:
tomorrow I shall eat.