The Final Feast

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.