He said he sold a simple slab of meat
For thirty silver pieces minted new;
And when the Friday moonlight struck the street
It seemed to prove his hateful statement true;
They say they dined that night in wondrous style,
With gallant toasts and speeches read aloud,
That soared above the silence; all the while
Below, a sullen, surly, restive crowd
Of fifty million slaughtered in the wombs,
For nothing more than mere convenience’ sake,
Stood mute while silent bands strode past the tombs
Where legions lay for someone on the take:
As gourmands sniffed the blood upon the cork,
An eagle died upon a silver fork.
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