A yawning gargoyle shares with me the morn.
We sit, reading the Sunday newspaper
about the world's events, mostly forlorn.
He notes how clean is his kind's ledger
compared with the blood of my people's news.
He say he lives without our illusions.
At night he culls without regard for views,
sates his hunger without the delusions
that he is doing it for God, nation,
or some psychological folderol.
"Admit to your primitive origin,
face up to your blood lust, you cannibal!
Then, perhaps, we might be able to discuss
how you could live honestly, without stress.