butter, flour, six eggs and
more, cream from the
top of the jug, the
fine-ground caster sugar
the Madeira wine spilling
over the glass and onto
his tongue, shifting his limbs,
gout-inflamed, seeking relief
from the jagged appetites
never surfieted, never satisfied,
always chasing the last crumbs
round the plate, sopping the
gravy with still-warm bread
while others hungered for
the crumbs from his table,
his veins hardened and cracked,
blood sluggish and stultified,
knife and fork ever at the ready
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