I wrote another poem.
Hear about a man of Darfar, teeth filed, hands blackened with char,
Who fancied himself a gourmet. “I seek the best flesh,” he would say.
Numerous people he did eat, but couldn’t find the perfect meat.
A strongman, with biceps like stone, a runner, fastest ever known.
A fatty man, the size of a horse, a scholar, master of all discourse.
A lady whose beauty went unmatched, a scoundrel who left no purse unsnatched.
These meals only left him distraught, not one was the taste that he sought.
Then he tried boiling, grilling, and baking, any cooking style, he was making.
Dried in the sun, softened with a mallet, none of these quite satisfied his palate.
Soups, pies, desserts, and breaded with spice, fermented drinks, or chilled with ice.
From Stygia, Cimmeria, Aquilonia, Kush, Khitai, Zingara, Hyrkania,
Zamora, Kambuja, and Shem. Every land, he tried all of them.
They all were missing that perfect flavor, the ideal meat he could truly savor.
But some men come in a different form, abominations outside of the norm.
Werewolves and hyenas, serpentmen too, human fish or frost giants just might do.
But why should he stop feasting there? Why put a limit on one’s fare?
Apes, gorillas, and yetis stand upright, and other beasts have a similar height.
Bound to manflesh simply would not do, without confines, everything was new.
On to countless new tastes he could transcend. A cannibal once, gourmet to the end.