Yon chocolate drips, thy grease it slips,
'tis greed and sloth for fattened lips.
Thy people feed, on meat and mead,
whilst poorer folk do die in need.
Yon supermarket doth extend,
from start of north to southern end,
still ye horde and wilst not send,
a crumb to thy most needy friend.
Ye knows of want but yet ye dine,
on wines and ales, on fare divine,
ye stand in line with sharpened tine,
stabbing thy fork to the fattened swine.
Yon crisps and snacks, thy crackerjacks,
yon piles of fat in bloated sacks,
ye won't relax, thy will it wracks,
ye quaff and snort in jumbo packs.
Yon world it turns, thy hunger burns,
woe unto greed, it never learns.
Pile thy plate, dine 'til late,
leave the others to die in weakened state.