I had opened a can of low fat rice-pudding and was
watching a food program, a big cook off in Tupelo.
Elvis father, Vernon, once built a small house here,
it cost him $ 250, but he could not pay the bank and
lost it; now the house is a shrine.
The winner, a cook who looked like a body builder,
said the pork had to be so tender that a toothless
man could eat it, and the sauce had to be right,
not too sweet or too sharp but with a hint of lemon.
When Elvis got to be famous he bought his parents
a big house and filled it with junks, he never been in
a fine home, how was he to know how the rich lived.
Cooks have come a long way, from the backroom to
where a bitter, low paid man resided and cleaned his
nails with a carving knife… and now TV stars.
Elvis best food was not pork, but a whole loaf, sliced
long ways, with a thick layer of peanut butter, bacon
and jam washed with sweet coca cola.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Good piece of prose - like it