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! ”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Funny thing the chefs know what's on the menu. Secret recepices from a crystal ball. Excellent poem.