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Sylvia Plath - The Glutton
Work rating: Low

He, hunger-strung, hard to slake,
So fitted is for my black luck
(With heat such as no man could have
And yet keep kind)
That all merit`s in being meat
Seasoned how he`d most approve;
Blood`s broth
Filched by his hand,
Choice wassail makes, cooked hot,
Cupped quick to mouth;
Though prime parts cram each rich meal,
He`ll not spare
Nor scant his want until
Sacked larder`s gone bone-bare.
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