The Glutton

by Sylvia Plath

He, hunger-strung, hard to slake, So fitted is for my black luck (With heat such as no man could have And yet keep kind) That all merit's in being meat Seasoned how he'd most approve; Blood's broth Filched by his hand, Choice wassail makes, cooked hot, Cupped quick to mouth; Though prime parts cram each rich meal, He'll not spare Nor scant his want until Sacked larder's gone bone-bare.