'Prior, I'm sure you'll agree,
though external beauty,
be but dermal, no higher,
sea sole, fowl from my fryer
prior approval would see,
should assuage thy belly!
Wine, fine spirits as well! '
When his menu he'd sell
Answered D in return:
'As my guest you will turn
in V.I.P. suite sweet
prior approval must meet,
meat and mince in mint sauce.
course with nothing too coarse
beet none other may beat
eat so bring your two feet
for feat rich to earn
all your stomach could yearn.'
'Pause not, for your paws
can crunch boiled lobster claws,
liken lichen to green
lettuce, let us to scene
be seen to add chili
unheard of in Chile
You will find my cuisine
tasty delicate lean
Mourn tomorrow morn 'cause
woke from dream by crow caws.'
Replied brother in C.
'To mistake, maître D.
sole for soul as you tell,
augurs almost of Hell,
Lucifer's clause, roast fire.
But you've just found a buyer!
Mind your spirits stay well
when your fishes indwell,
for indulgence you'll fee
should they foul prove to be.'.
'In your inn no heartburn
' would I feel, tummy churn,
I your guest guessed jest fleet
owing naught to conceit.
There must be no remorse
or complaint made, perforce
slender maid with round seat
may my table serve, mete?
Taking cue I'll queue, learn,
take time thyme to discern.'.
'Sure your rays from far shores
may raise hope, reassures
that your servings have been
tasty like runner bean
fresh not stored in fridge chilly
nor prepared by hillbilly,
hoard horde teem scarce serene
might your team's great tureen
take by storm, raw's cooked, roars
'soon consuming your stores! '
25 December 1977 revised 2 April 2009
for previous version see below
Crew that maître d'hôtel Replied Brother in C.:
to fat friar far from cell ‘To mistake, maître D.
‘Prior, I’m sure you’ll agree, sole for soul as you tell,
though external beauty augurs almost of Hell,
be but dermal, no higher, Satan’s roasting coal fire.
sole or fowl from my fryer But you’ve just found a buyer!
would assuage thy belly! Mind your spirits stay well
Then to accompany, - when your fishes indwell,
wind, fine spirits as well.’ for indulgence you’ll fee
When his menu he’d sell. should fowl foul prove to be! ”
© Jonathan Robin Poem written 25 December 1977
Jonathan ROBIN's Other Poems
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