The Last Supper

Leaves fear falling,
on paths men tread.
They kill each other
for butter and bread.

They shed not one
of their own blood.
What seeps from swords
and soaks the mud,

Are tears of widows,
children orphaned,
of waning mothers,
a God who's shunned.

When the last of men,
will have thrust his steel,
I'll have my supper,
My very last meal.