Where Do You Draw The Line?

The linen’s never normally that clean…
     They must’ve bought it for the occasion.
And at what cost, too! All for the induction
     of the ambassador. Protocol followed precisely

to impart our fine flemische influence, I hear.
     What could be more impressive, more opulent,
such a portrayal of our worldly competence
    than the entertainment of our showpiece:

our Indonesian aap! Or is it Angolan… Anyway
     who cares, we all know what that means,
wink wink. And all that sumptuous stone fruit
     shipped fresh from our vigorous kolonies

oozing with you-know-what! (Need I say more?
     Don’t want a snoop to dob on us for a quip.)
I’m so famished I could rip open those plums,
     each kweepeer, the melon, even! God, I’d gorge

on those grapes til my teeth turn to rot. And don’t
     get me started on the game. If no-one was looking
I’d tear the claws off that lobster, suck out
     the juices, chew the dead man’s fingers

til it’s all but pulp. And you know, once I’ve had
     these hands at it all, I might even go for the hond,
that belly so pink and lean! And there’s no doubt
    you’d do the same, right? Given the chance?