Placed in the “company of wild beasts,
whom they resemble,”* his first body’s jowl
quivered like the sow’s, but rank and foul
His meat at slaughter provided no feasts—
a form no greater than that of the least’s
and even defective: it’s cock’s tight cowl
had filled Versaille’s halls with the slut-Queen’s howl
as she rutted with courtiers and beasts.
Snuffing the second was no special feat;
it shook with spasmodic cachexia.
Harnessed, the poor’s rabid dyspepsia
proved more than enough to vacate his seat.

Now, christened in baptismal blood as “equal,”
we plot to forestall the savage sequel.