As the days pass and the night draws near
I have but one thought that quickly I fear.
Its the thought of my food stash and how low it does grow
as time passes away and sun moves from snow.
I read each poem and my little tummy rummbles
of people and food, it shurely could humble (someone).
Yes I do have a weakness and this bye and bye
is the thought of my lips chowing down on some pie.
But what's a little one to do till the next snack
I guess I shall sit back and let my stomache attack.
Word ring out as I look up to the stagent sky
Another poem about Maggot Pie.

But out of curiosity or maybe a wish
will these poor maggots come up with a new dish.
How about some cassorole, or maybe a stew
some soup, some salad, It's all up to you.
My poor tummy keeps rumbling all night and all day
If my poor tummy could talk this is what she would say.

FEED ME!

Penned by my hand on the 13th of Severin, in the year 116 MA.