Friday, 11 April 2014

A Sonnet To Dinner ...

... where the witticism flows like wine,
and likewise stains the lips from which it drips.
Who has not felt the tongue's cruel flail?
Who has not quailed before that whip?

Admit me not to Pandemonium,
that two-starred Hell, where unkind hosts 
hold court, and homicidal chefs concoct
culinary deserts of burnt toast

I cannot look upon another assiette
bare but for some nanoparticle of Hollandaise.
I cannot go to banquets where I am the ghost.
I'll not be the lapdog, not the salon pet.
I'll lurk at home, and swallow takeaways
and, very coldly, sweat.


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