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Young Writers Society


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While you ponder this, enjoy a poem:


Glutton, The (1956)
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.


The true adventurer goes forth aimless and uncalculating to meet and greet unknown fate.
— O. Henry (William Sydney Porter)