Droppings From the Table, Part 1

The image burns within my brain of an old medieval hall, remembered from childhood picture books. The food is heaped upon the board, the shields are on the wall. The lords and ladies round the groaning table flirt and watch the fools, the one in the silly hat, and the others huddled against the walls. As the eaters of the banquet gaily proceed on in drunken bloated revelry they display their earthly faults, with arrogance, to a huddled mud stained peasantry. The bottom of the hierarchy, in the shadows serving, or shut outside the door, hope to get the garbage leftover from these bores. But before the lords and ladies leave, to pursue their flirtations in exclusive privacy, the hounds are let in to lick the floor and eat the droppings and the gore. Finally the fools from the shadows and the huddled groups outside are allowed into the abandoned hall to lick the plates, to glean whatever greasy scrapes and food have been left behind. I think of this scene often as I read the daily news