If in Calcutta slum and street,
…The cast-off castes could view
Our contests where the warriors eat,
…What would they say or do?
The gladiators, glass in hand
…To wash without a taste,
Are Roman as they take their stand;
…Are Roman in their waste.
The meat tossed into mighty maws,
…Should nourish, nurture bliss.
Instead, tis only for applause,
…Mere rocks into abyss.
Their bellies swollen with excess,
…And then, we wildly cheer,
While there, they’re swollen in distress,
…And mothers shed a tear.
© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2011.