Feast of the Calf

Pantagruel, awake, for it is dusk
 Fire glows crimson on the sands
 The butchers rest with reddened hands
 The smoke of sacrifice ascends
 To please the gods!
 Bees from the hive, sting you awake
 But leave you sweet, with golden dust
 They mean to prick your appetite
 Goad your throat to lust
 Your belly trembles at the scent
 At table it is president
 The purple sash around your girth
 Circumnavigates the earth
 The groaning cart has come for you
 The ox is decked with scarlet flowers
 The fat is hissing on the fire
 Warm bread perfumes the air
 The moon shines bright upon the beach
 Musicians rent the air
 A sword will serve you for a knife
 A pitchfork combs your hair
 Let hatchet broach the cask of wine
 Let black juice fill the bowl
 Let steaming meat stand piled high
 Smoking innards crown it all
 Was there ever any world of such abundance!
 Pantagruel, awake, for it is dawn
 Fire glows crimson on the sands
 The butchers rest with reddened hands
 The smoke of sacrifice ascends
 To please the gods!