"Fee-Fie-Foe-Fum!
I smell the blood of an Englishman!
Be he alive, or be he dead,
I'll grind his bones
To make my bread!"

The war stomps in
on large booted feet
sits at the table
and eats the bread
made of the bones
of our families.

And when the bread is gone,
a giant's hand
reaches down to harvest
more men
for bones
for bread.

Won't somebody steal
his goose that lays golden eggs?
Won't someone empty
the bags of gold he counts?
Won't somebody silence the harp
that sings him to sleep?

Oh, for a handful
of magic beans
to climb into that
elevated realm
of the giant
that eats the bones
of honest men
for bread.

©E. Howe Nov 21, 2003