The Last Supper The staff were run off their feet. Simple as the meal was to be, It was pure chaos in the kitchen. There were bones in the fish stew. The wine still needed decanting. The waiters were smoking out back When the guests started filtering in, Sitting on one side of the long table. The famous one sat in the dead center, A faraway look on his face. The others studied the laminated menu, Spun their empty glasses absentmindedly, Scrolled through Yelp reviews. The wine was poured.