"Flesh of my flesh, lay me on the table,
you and your brothers, gather round.
I'll split myself open.
Man and God. Peter, take my liver.
You: the palms of my hands.
Yours have the devil's dirt,
so keep them far from me,
but your mouth is pure,
burnt by familial blood,

so eat. Do not pretend to be desperate,
I can call and there will be bread.
Though I pity you, we both know you want
more than just the land.
Your eyes ask, even beg, to live as a beast.
You threw off wealth miles before this room.
All to succumb to meat and then bone.
Perhaps this should've been my followers' test:
to reveal their purpose for feeding upon me.

Go on, use me as your excuse, but I give you one question,
Isn't it enough that you step on the faces
of men, must you also thrive after everyone's dead?
Must you live in the mountains, a lion
or a vulture
after your guides have left you, horrified,
or you've eaten all that's left?"