The last supper

We, each of us, took up a place around the bin,
My twelve brothers and i,
The feast lay within; discarded scraps,
A bounty of out of date buscuits,
Over ripe fruit and stale baps,
Glittering beneath a placenta of spilt lemonade,
The sandwiches had past their sell by date,
So we avoided any with mayonaise;
Which was the majority,
But still more than enough to feed well,
Plenty of stories to tell,
We even share with the cats,
That haven't taken ther fill of rats
And we grin fat and silly in poverty,
And we laugh at how...
Beggars can be sometimes be choosers,
Just like winners can sometimes be losers,
The poor eat like kings,
Around lit fires you can here them sing,
When the refuse have been harvested,
And glut is enjyed by the starving,
The world is small to we wretched,
It's only as far as you walk,
As wide as the stories of the neighbour you meet,
It is as kind as the nearest soup kitchen,
And sometimes, when the day is right,
The gutters become palaces,
Solemn faces become bright,
And on those nights,
You may think to be full of misery,
Our futures are bright,
For we have chanced upon synnergy,
But always in the gutter,
You are eating your last supper,
People don't want us here afterall,
We should be removed with the rest of the clutter,
Swept away with the waste,
Drained away with the rain water,
So we eat like we will never eat again,
We sing like we are inventing chords,
We laugh like we are alien to sorrow,
We live like there is no tomorrow,
Our fire burns to warm us against the cold
And we expect in a moment to be told
To move along and empty the gutter,
For this is no place for the merriment of clutter,
And with every moment steeped in life,
With every breath undiminished delight,
We make our halls outside the walls,
And from the bins we eat our last supper.