One day we notice that the sun needs feeding. Immediately a crash program begins: we fill rockets with wheat, smoke-rings, razorblades, then, after long aiming --they're off. Hulls specially alloyed so as not to melt before the stuff gets delivered we pour cattle rivers windmills, aborigines etcet into the sun which however, grows stubbornly smaller, paler. Finally of course we run out of things to feed the thing, start shipping ourselves. By now all the planets-moons-asteroids and so on have been shoveled in though they're not doing much good it's still looking pretty weak, heck, nothing helps! Now the last few of us left lift off. The trip seems forever but then, touchdown. Just before entering we wonder, will we be enough. There's a last-second doubt in our minds: can we, can this final sacrifice, our broughten crumb, satiate it--will a glutteral belch burst out then at last,-- and will that Big Burp be seen by far-off telescopes, interpreted as a nova by those other galaxies, those further stars which have always seemed even more starving than ours?