Heap high the groaning platter with pink fillets, sucking pig and thick gammon, celestial chef. Be generous with the crackling. Let your hand slip with the gravy trough, dispensing plenty.
In the throat Of Hell, before the very vestibule Of opening Orcus, sit Remorse and Grief, And pale Disease, and sad Old Age and Fear, And Hunger that persuades to crime, and Want: Forms terrible to see. Suffering and Death Inhabit here, and Death's own brother Sleep; And the mind's evil lusts and deadly War, Lie at the threshold, and the iron beds Of the Eumenides; and Discord wild Her viper-locks with bloody fillets bound.
The Judge straightway the eye of the servitors caught: And soon bowl, bottles, sugar and sliced beef were brought. Plut and Rykov so briskly set to cut and clink, So to greedily swallow, so copiously drink, That in half an hour twenty-three fillets they munched, And downed half a huge bowl of most excellent punch .
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