The Fabled Feast Of Attrition

They were starving. Starving to the point of licking the paste that bound their books and eating their tallow candles.
They boiled their boots and chewed at their very nails. Those that died became the main course for those that didn't.
I couldn't help them. I could only watch from much later, removed by over dozen decades.

Be thankful, my spoiled son, for every crust of bread, for anything that slithers, crawls, flies and
swims, that you can put in your mouth.
Be glad for every drop of rain that does not soak your fine hair.
Be happy for every stitch of finery that keepeth warm your fair skin.
For we, all of us, walk on a line like a razor's edge.
Feast now on your sumptuous setting
For you may be feasting later on your friends.