Miles away, or simply down below,
Hunger runs rampant while his belly grows.
Flies swarm his table, his feast set apart.
Feeding is his life, feeding is his art
He sees life as his competition,
The lord of flies grows,
He takes and eats from others,
Beelzebub is all he knows.
His soul feels a hunger he cannot satisfy,
His life is a hole from which he must fly.
So he eats - must eat. Must not die.
Others starve - must not ask why.
He fears of his loss, he needs to win,
Eats his misery, and that is his sin.
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