There is nothing
left to share, for anyone. Ah,
the noble disgrace
of gluttony.
Three times third-world peoples die,
hungry and naked and afraid.
While the civilized
throw steaks to the dogs, and eat
the tables and chairs
the gold candleabras, and all
the servents wages.
What folly finds us moderns fat
and fearless?
Arise from the velvet couches of comfort.
The coming winter shall be
a bitterly cold one...
all hands on deck!
if any expect to survive.

The golden-goose is cooked, stuffed and
waiting,
if there be even one candle left, light it,
so everyone can fully see;
carve the beast
and share with all, in this
the world's final feast.

Smoky Hoss

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-final-feast/