The Feast Of The Dead

The Captain threw a remarkable feast -
Though that hot night I felt less than prandial -
Wine in the fountain, masked girls on the stairs,
Tigers in waistcoats, chained, serving eclairs
And the ghosts of the dead in the candles.

The roast bull sweated a thick gravy grease
(The fine gentleman carved it with axes).
I swear that the moon was stuck in a tree
And, by my seat, quoth the Raven to me,
"Nevermore can I dance and it vexes."

The heat and the light
The shimmering night
The whole house at large
A grotesque mirage.

I started to believe I was the meal instead,
Seven veils on my body, the forks round my head.
"You can spread me on toast," I think that I said,
"Til my fellow diners are sated and fed."
I kept to my seat and dreamt that I bled
Whilst the half-alive living waltzed with the dead.