My Head In Someone Else's Offal

I force my head down, nearer the spoon, as I scoop up another mound of fleshy, bloody remnants and push them - greedily yet reluctantly - into my mouth. Those around me undertake a similar ritual; dirty, shabby men, grim-faced women trying to ensure their children get enough to eat.

It's best not to ask what the reddish-grey gruel consists of, just cram it in. Don't worry, it all comes out as a shit. If it were not for the Skaggerston Homeless Shelter, I'd starve.

It may not be gourmet, but it's food. And for that I'm eternally thankful.

Amen.