The Local Flavour - Amputated

Fashioned from flesh, an infinite source of meats,

My children flock, to this familiar feast,

never suspecting, their love for me is blinding,

to them a saint, the doting hand that feeds,

but history will mark me as a beast,

Hiding my true nature, whilst amongst the sheep,

like lambs to slaughter upon them I will feast,

watching the lost wander, without direction,

I bless them with purpose, to be my sustenance

In my kitchen countless victims, I dine upon them, and dredge their shame

carving the flesh from their bones so tenderly

I have mastered the art of butchery,

all my victims, selected carefully,

I document them and then preserve their organs,

I claim the best, the finest cuts for me,

I stew the rest, and feed it to the pure

never think to question, the source of this treat,

unwitting communion, of this divine cuisine