He, hunger-strung, hard to slake, <br />So fitted is for my black luck <br />(With heat such as no man could have <br />And yet keep kind) <br />That all merit's in being meat <br />Seasoned how he'd most approve; <br />Blood's broth <br />Filched by his hand, <br />Choice wassail makes, cooked hot, <br />Cupped quick to mouth; <br />Though prime parts cram each rich meal, <br />He'll not spare <br />Nor scant his want until <br />Sacked larder's gone bone-bare.<br /><br />Sylvia Plath<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-glutton-3/
