Barbarian cocoa

I had a guest for lunch at my house,

He didn’t have pants or a hat or a blouse.

He communicated with grunts and growling,

His table manners would get my mom howling.

Just his hands, no fork or knife,

Rain of crumbs, the air was rife.

He had a beard and it quickly greased up,

His hands too slippery to drink from a cup.

Tearing meat and crunching bone,

Throwing his head back with a loud moan.

Satisfaction was what I think he felt,

The dessert was ready and I think he’d melt.

It was his favorite, cocoa quite warm,

He used his palms to save the glass from harm,

Squeezing them tight on its both sides,

Down it went in brown sugar tides.

But my guest had one minor gripe,

“Marshmallows missing!” with a rough beard wipe.

“Oh, my bad!” I fetched him some.

Give barbarians sweets and they will come.

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