mystery of the late feast

fearst thou not knowing only life's aftertaste?

oft sung the old and wasted,

"All too late, All too late. I have taken to much wandering,

and arriving at my destined house too late...

All that that good wine served there sateth, and all coveted dainty-fare

with a doddering tongue

I savoured it too late..."

thus suckled and chewed, the pig under glistening grapes' bough still

his mouth be wide and deep, though swalloweth much dark juice.

too busy was he in belching complaint.

O, the guest, that good ol' pig he----

unwittingly won the highest honour's seat, belatedly....

to the table of Sunset of the field,

when all other creatures have lost that innocents' unquenchable desire,

drink privately from youthful bosoms they do no now more,

yet that pig alone in his delay---well-fed on sour Tack-of-Age for a Entrer,

had barely a mouth of vintage aperitif that calls itself Envy, and now leisurely

is waiting upon the e'en more great dishes prepared by the mountain's divine's familiars,

unbeknownst, his joyful life at the table barely begins----

enow only starting to know the blossoming nectarine wonder of late life's foretaste, while gulping it down

he cries out further for yet more unheard-of Ambrosia----

immortal digestiff of gods that come after feasting's oblivion!