In the base at the heart of the cinder cone
Sits a man who (accustomed to dining alone
In impeccable white with a gauntleted hand)
Ignores the procession of dish drones unmanned
To consider the boy who, despite being doomed,
Sat down at his table and quickly consumed
Half a dodo; pommes frites; a petit-four sold
By a Saudi ex-prince, iced with edible gold;
Truffle-sauce veal served with saffron baguette;
and fruits with no name from the wilds of Tibet.
At last, when he’s sated, cocksure as he’s young,
“Let’s talk,” he says, tiger still strong on his tongue.