Long Pig Poem by Percy Dovetonsils

The wagon train
of poets
snowed in
in the Sierras

first talked
of what an opportunity it was
to winter
undistracted.

They gathered
to brag about
how well and how much
they were writing.

But as food ran low
they turned their hungry eyes
on a plump sonneteer.
"Why not?Formally, she's obsolete."

The palms of her hands
were her tastiest parts,
just as New Guinea cannibals
attested.

Next came
the New York hack
specializing
in rhyming epics.

"Everything he published
was instantly remaindered."
They devoured him
without a trace

of guilt.
His meat
tasted strangely
of tobacco.

"Resolved, that the next poet we eat
not be a smoker."
That meant Collins, a witty academic
with real talent.

No matter, they ate him anyway.
"He's published 20 books.
His 21st won't be missed."
His meat tasted faintly

of honey baked ham.
Thanks to global warming
Spring came early
to the Sierras.

The cannibals
made their way
to San Francisco
Bay.

They were briefly
questioned
by the SFPD,
then set free.

What did the cops care
if a few poets,
more or less,
were eaten by their peers?

They understood
that poetry
is a world
so starved

poets
have no choice
but to turn on each other
for sustenance.