Heston

Much to his viewers’ drooling glee,
Heston ate himself on TV.
The cameras caught his final meal
Initial bite to dying squeal.
A fricassee of shins and feet
Is followed by a tasty treat:
A tempting tray of tiny pies
Containing tendons, knees and thighs.
He boils his bumcheeks, zits and all,
Then braises each big Blumenball.
His cock, he curries and consumes;
A sated belch the air perfumes.
He sits contented, belly filled;
Concerned execs look less than thrilled.
Is this a loss of appetite?
Has Superman munched kryptonite?
But after a commercial break
He springs to life, his greed awake.
His fingers, dipped in armagnac,
Are found to be a scrumptious snack.
His hands are sliced for Melba toast;
His severed arms form Sunday roast.
His manboobs, fried, are magnifique –
Much acclaimed as cuisine classique,
Which the Cordon Bleu would endorse.
Next, it’s kidneys in black bile sauce.
His offal must not go to waste,
So it’s ground to a piquant paste
As garnish for his sautéd brains
(It adds to flavour, chef explains).
His massive head is baked entire –
A dish to make Carême expire.
And so he eats, and eats, and eats,
Enraptured by these juicy meats,
Until a stomach’s all that’s left.
But this sole remnant’s not bereft,
Only hungry still, bawling ‘More!’
It’s the latest star on E4.

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