Oh the priests in the temples, what do they know of food

Oh the priests in the temples, what do they know of food,
A direct hotline to the gods, that's what one needs, that they've already got,
So for what purpose will they focus
On feeding the rest of us,
The poor and the needy, and the foreigners
The hungry and the uncared for
They say it's for the gods, that by feeding us, they're reaching up
But oh those gods, they must have a terrible rut
For the brahmins are no good in the pot
Some rice they give us, so watery and flavorless
And a little bit of milk and yogurt
Just a drop of honey and ghee too
And when you ask for more flavor
They tell not to be greedy and shoo
But oh what a wretched life,
When even for a cupful of curd
One must wait for the end of the month
Oh when our fates shine
That we may get pudding of rice
the seasons will have come and gone thrice.
The stomach wants what it does
the best of the food is kept for the worst,
for when the King dies, or his consort
it is a feast for us, of legendary lore,
they want the spirits to be blessed well
so our ancestors may help them cross the heavenly well
but oh our fathers and their fathers, they too did suffer
in the heavens, is good warm tummyful of food offered?