Read quickly, this one-line poem sounds like a joke, but it keeps unsettling you the longer you look at it. The key is the word "eat." We usually think of art as something we keep: hung on walls, shelved in libraries, preserved in museums. Here, the best things people make end up consumed instead.
There are a few ways to take that. "Eat" might point to food itself, such as bread, wine, or a feast, as if the finest human creation is simply what keeps us alive. It might also suggest that art gets used up, digested and turned into something else, the way a culture swallows its own paintings and songs. A darker reading hears appetite and loss: we destroy what we love most.
The speaker's tone is dry and certain, like someone stating a fact. That calm makes the idea feel both witty and slightly eerie. The mood is playful, a little sly, and quietly sobering.