It’s not the food
that makes me dread your show.
It’s “sammies, ’
“stoups” and “choups”
“E.V.O.O.”
Just so I hate to hear,
“It’s time to PLATE UP.”
Someday 'eat' will be 'de-plate.'
You grate my nerves like cheese.
Why make each noun a verb?
The urge to “fork” a pie crust
I would curb.
Things change,
perhaps evolve,
to meet new needs.
New foods, new tools
demand new words, new deeds.
“Pop-OVERs” make me smile and
“simmer DOWN.”
At “finish OFF” like
“Where’s it AT? ”
I frown.
“To stir” makes sense.
So why so much ado?
You stir it “IN” or “UP” or
“AROUND” or “THROUGH.”
I sit and eat and watch you
just to scoff.
Perhaps it’s time
to turn my T.V. OFF.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem