152 -Host With The Most

Poem number 152
The Host With The Most
The host sits quietly, at the head
Surveys his evening guests
Faces slumped in bowls of soup
Immaculately dressed
Yet stiff, unmoving, silent now
Their arguments were lost
They came around for dinner
But in truth they paid the cost
Of trusting that the food was safe
And drinking too much wine
If they’d just employed a taster
Then they’d probably be fine
But they’re dead. Supine and not alive
Poisoned to hilt
The host looks highly satisfied
With not a trace of guilt
He put the arsenic in the soup
And now he’s won the day
His guests were quite annoying
But, at last, they’ve gone away.


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