“A poem shall blossom anywhere
Like love in a leper’s heart.
Seek not a venue for Muse to bare”
So said those who don’t impart.
How can this world’s incessant woes
Trip you on your journey there?
If wings you have, push from your toes
And soar through magical air.
So here I face the furnace blaze
With diced carrots on a basket’s bow-
A knife’s flat in fiery display
Mute players of a futile crambo.
For what ballad shall tilt my quill
In this cthonic culinary lair?
Oh! Pit me not with mettle’s fill
I am a man, in a commoner’s wear.
Pray tell me, how shall I mould
An elegy or a lament’s tear
Midst rotting parsley on fish, cold
Tubers’ effrontery on fire’s smear?
With a wounded quill, I rush away
Skipping a step up and out.
From one to another I foray
Driven by a jejune knout.
“All the world’s a grand cookhouse
With fires stoked in watery basins.
A soulless meal that all espouse –
Made and fed while life sickens.”
So said He, and turned to stuff
A fresh apple in a swine’s snout.
I for my part, know ’tis enough
To live life without soul’s grout.