Unpleasingly seasoned, she was
At getting what she wanted
And reasonably unappeasing
Though still appetizing
Whetting on whetstones
Her boned appetites
Grating and shredding
While grinding just right
Colors and textures
She mixed with much whimsy
Saucing the saucier
With pure bourbon whiskey
They found her one morning
Her head in a stew
With garlic and onions
In clinched fist, askew
They buried her standing
For they could not unbend
The overcooked proteins-
So stood her, on end..
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem