Bring me a plate and a carving knife
Sharp enough to rip through flesh,
Blunt enough to make it hurt
Heavy enough to split the ribs.

Spear my heart on a toasting fork.
Fire to roast, to char the flesh.
It may be weak, a little torn,
But you may hear the speech of birds.

Grind up the bones, remove the skin,
Pluck out the eyes, the lungs and teeth.
Feed the fire, rake it high.
Blister and blood, to burn the tongue.

Open the veins and drain the blood
Decant it into silver jars
Raise your glasses, drain me dry
And toast the one whose destiny
Is to be forgotten.