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Insatiable
I search for homeless guys
Who sleep among the wheat
I make them into meat-pies
And sell them in the street.
I sometimes eat them roast
Washing'em down with ale
A buttered slice of toast
Over a bedtime tale.
Each winter I drink blood
Collect it my barrels
With bone-marrow and spud
Over sweet Christmas carolls
Yet downright to my taste:
Firm buttocks hence I bake
Of blondine virgins, chaste
Amongst layers of cake!
Louise Blackwick