Death In The Pot Poem by TMA

It was just a stew on the fire-

Innocent, innocuous, ingestible-

Till someone decided it was

Insipid, inept, inadequate

So he added mandrakes

Found out in the field

He didn’t know what they were

But they looked right

Smelled right and seemed right

So he figured they were right.



Now there is death in the pot

Looming, lurking, leering…

But the aroma has never been better

Delicious, desirable, delectable-

So he patted himself on the back

“Good job, ” he said, “they’re going to love this! ”

A fit meal for the fete

A great stew for the great

And he stirred up more pride

As he stirred up more death.



There is death in the pot

Smooth, silent, sneering

But the stew has never been thicker

Its hue has never been darker

And he whistles a tune

As he ladles out generous helpings

Of wholesome, nourishing refreshment;

Tasty, tangy tomatoes

Crispy, crunchy carrots-

Dreadful, daunting death.



There is death in the pot

And now there is death in their saucers

Presented to the prophet and his guests

But the prophet doesn’t budge-

It smells too good; it’s way too thick

And it looks too enticing

The prophet is a master chef himself

Well versed in the proper ways of cooking

And recognizes immediately

That there is death in the pot.



But his guests are not as discriminating

And dig in whole-heartedly

Alternately slurping loudly,

Complimenting the maker of this wonderful dish

And demanding second helpings

It’s not till much later

When their insides are squirming;

Intestines screaming

Do they return to the prophet-

“Sir, there is death in the pot! ”