Le Dejeuner Sous L'herbe Poem by Alexandre Nodopaka

The grass is greener but not always
on the side of the fence we are on
For one, it never has been tasted
from beneath French cows.

I love to chew on pastures
mashed by voluptuous rumps and
expect them firmer than boiled potatoes
and tasty as French Fries.

As a Francophile worm I practice
gourmandizing by worming my way
amid the grasses and consume
the buttocks of Manet's girlfriends.

My only worry would be their dyspepsia
from Roquefort that might transcend
my snobby nostrils delicate membranes.

Such adventures into gourmand arts
I would surname Post-Epicureanism
if the world needed another art-ism.