A peasant named Prosper
was shot for stealing a turnip
so he did not live to see
the farmer rebury the turnip.
Prosper received no such ceremony.
Turnip R.I.P.
We dispersed on the road in various directions, and began to collect dry grass and anything that could possibly make a fire. Every time we chanced to bend down towards the ground a passionate desire seized upon our whole body to lie down upon the earth—lie there immovably and eat the dense black loam—eat a lot of it, eat till we could eat no more, and then fall asleep. Only to eat!—if we slept for evermore afterwards—to chew and chew and feel the thick warm pulp flow gradually from our mouths along our dried-up gullet and food passages into our famished, extended stomachs, burning with the desire to suck up some sort of nourishment.
In the Steppe by Maxim Gorky (1897)
See also An Insurrection 1897:
https://catherineeisnerfrance.blogspot.com/2018/10/an-insurrection-metoo-1897.html