In the post-banquet darkness
Below a hectare-sized, re-oiled table,
A single plop of imperial caviar
Lies crushed and camouflaged on the Kerman rug,
More delicious than anything Tolstoy wrote.
Dark as the darkness itself,
The roach approaches, sure of foot,
To consume with relish
What others relished in the light.
And people say roaches lack class!