In whichever Circle, the gluttons
Feast on both themselves and nothing,
Are chewed and gulped and spat
And starve. And there’s you, squat
By the table side, squandering
No time on sickly undoing
The bird before you, torn to flays
Of former flesh. Rapt in throes
Of flavoured relish, you fatly feast
Until the belly’s fit to unfasten,
Belt-tight, swell-sore, gut-rotten
Weight of the food: makes you a glutton
Glorying in unpleasantness, love
For a glutton’s punishment.
When some people “pig out,” they really go for it.