Typically Brueghel - Tastes Like Chicken

The hunters and their dogs are going home, Their secret sworn to silence, footprints crunching through the snow; Agreed the parish priest should never know. They walk beneath a sky of sickly hue, A tale not fit for telling and an angry sullen mood Anticipate the taste of sordid food. Tonight they’ll fill their stewpot to the brim. Some meals may ease one’s hunger, others eat you from within, With nothing gained confessing to the sin. The hunters and their dogs are going home.