Parasite Banquet at an Unspecified Time Interval

The hour of our feasting draws nigh
And still all of us die
All you need is at towel
to wipe away the innocence
of your own lying filth

And still it draws near
and four of us die

Apparently These Situations are Prone To Desire
Adding Your Incendiery Conscience to the Fire

All alone with your self
A shadow of a beautiful bout of congruency
Accent of selfless doubt is naught but futility
Two dozen men watching from the hands of time

As the hour of feasting draws here
Be grateful it's time
For dissonent cheers
As we wipe away this grime

Bare walls of my room
Pierce the gaze of my eyes
And all is sent away to the worms