- Image: Guilty as Charged
Omelette
Now I am a clone.
Whoa, what a Frog and Pheasant cook am I!
While I listen to a monster mp3 player, here,
Butt in, friction, make a cream of passion fruit
Cold fish, it’s sole, my own, I have the receipt
But in my stirring, all this, viscous pond
Beers blur the eyes, a didact without respect
His croaking voice, and his demeanor crumbling
With reference to his deceit. And all for cooking!
For Chef Goombah!
What’s Goombah to me, or me to him?
That I should sweep this place? How would he clean it
Had he a votive, and cause for precision
That I have? He would sweep it down, this cage, with fear
Sharpen his cleaver, the chef general, his words to teach
By gad! He’s guilty, but no justice, he will go free,
Confound it! He’s a fool, I am amazed he has a job
These very facilities, littered with sow ears, and I
A clever fool, with muddy boots, must peek
Like a spy with a mop, gravid with filth,
And can not retort, no, not for the sake of this place
Where this damned fool stirs his beggar’s stew
It rankles the nose, and flutters the stomach, Ace
He crammed in pig’s feet, the knave, the blowhard
He calls it bullion! He breaks my plate across!
Plucks veggies from the floor, and throw them in the pot!
Squeaks through his pig nose, his swill hurts the throat
Reach deep then, with the tongs. Why must I do this?
Gah! Grounds! His coffee is tainted, with fly and flea
He put in chicken liver, alack! And the bladder gall
To make his distressing, bitter food, and this
I should have warned them, the manager and guests
This cook’s awful! A bloody mess, this villain
He doesn’t care, the tramp, the leech, food meant for killin’
Oh, regurgitate!
Oh, wait! Am I a fool, his job I crave
That I a cook of beef and deer and wonders ne’er blurr’d
Goaded to his undoing, prompted by my greed
Must I like a helper skulk, hide my dreams with words,
And fail, cursing, like a sham?
Like a cook of horse meat? Fugeddaboutit, foe!
About the drain, I have a plan
Is it true that a bad cook eats not of his work?
Perhaps by cunning I could make him eat
And have his stomach proclaim for all to see
For bad food, though it cannot speak, can repeat
With most disgusting fountain. I will switch plates
Place food made by his own hand before him
Yet make it look like something made by a master
before this swine, I’ll observe his demeanor
I’ll be ready with a sponge, a bucket and a mop
for though his food be drivel, and sometimes drivel can look sweet
Out of his weakness and folly
A potent strike to his very gut
The meal’s the thing
Whereby I’ll rid myself of him
With deepest and most sincere apologies to the Bard of Avon,
and to Hamlet, Act II, Scene II
Uphill Writing 