The sinking sun is now undone,
                                   the sky is fading red
and shadows prowl neath cloak and cowl
                                   for midnight lies ahead.

Above the heap, the bosses sleep
                                   with bloated bellies fed;
for, yes indeed, no one's in need,
                                   at least, that's what they've said.

Amongst the ones that hunger shuns,
                                   in day's retreating tread,
are spiders black ensnaring snacks
                                   while spinning silken thread.

But as it stands, in conquered lands
                                   a famine reigns instead -
and kids at noon, collapse and swoon
                                   on stones they call a bed.

With aching eyes they fantasize
                                  and dream of gingerbread,
and after while, they wake and smile,
                                   now dining with the dead.