Strolling through the Grand Bazaar,
I spied a child made of peking duck.

In the butcher's shop window,
hung splayed on a ring of hooks,
he gnawed at his arm
with the ravenous eyes
of one who is deranged.

As he chewed on his arm,
between jerky bites,
I could hear him saying,

I am Groot.
Or perhaps it was,
I am truth.

If he succeeded
in eating himself whole,
his brain would be kept
alive in a jar

so he would eat again
until he is full.