My wife believes she is being transported to a holocaust of cookery.
Her watercolors are important,
Without them my illuminations are only two-dimensional,
And even though our doctor says she can't,
I know she can make this mutual contribution when she will.
The Sous-Chef beneath our Poet Laureate's refrigerator has been eaten by dust bunnies.
This is a great responsibility for the spaceships of the world, but they've never known hurry.
The radio has been turned off.
My nine Latvian Nannies have been sent home.
There is a strange magic in my daughter's cough.
I detect in my apéritif an undertone of mermaid foam.
And the rising politician next door, whose scandal is flavored with yellow & red curries,
Like tonight's dinner, will be squished neath the weight of ten thousand vicious inquiries.
What happened to the questions of last February's poem? Who invited that wanker?
The health inspector's knocks,
Always punctual & always ill-timed,
Have shaken the staff to the holes of their holy sox.
In strictest verse & meter his report is rhymed.
The administration of the household will look both ways before deciding the vegetarian option.
The Princess of Belarus has arrived without her secret friend to spank her.
I have been struggling to change the subject
Away from the issues plaguing Rwanda's economy,
But my idiot brother has no respect
For what the upper-class doesn't find funny.
And the lovely young heiresses, whose blouses' integrities fragilely depend on a safety pin,
Like tonight's dinner, are already looking to East Asia for a righteous multicultural adoption.
This 1897 Cognac can barely wash away the taste of those peasant dishes.
Has my wife forgotten the reason
I've lost my robes to the hungry wind?
And why we don't serve pitted fruit at the end of the season?
But all my opinions she must naggingly rescind.
My brother & the Princess are still arguing about whether the Solanum Nightshade was genetically modified,
While the Gringo slaves of minimum wage are buried beneath piles of dirty wishes.
Putting my feet up on my great-great-grandmother's ottoman,
I can reflect upon a couple well-phrased biblical verses.
There are a few hostile mergers which I ought to plan,
But right now I'm content to let the demitasse scream its curses.
And the taxidermied venison heads, near the ceiling, noble & sad-eyed,
Like tonight's dinner, have been taken from the wild & irreverently deep-fried.
Her watercolors are important,
Without them my illuminations are only two-dimensional,
And even though our doctor says she can't,
I know she can make this mutual contribution when she will.
The Sous-Chef beneath our Poet Laureate's refrigerator has been eaten by dust bunnies.
This is a great responsibility for the spaceships of the world, but they've never known hurry.
The radio has been turned off.
My nine Latvian Nannies have been sent home.
There is a strange magic in my daughter's cough.
I detect in my apéritif an undertone of mermaid foam.
And the rising politician next door, whose scandal is flavored with yellow & red curries,
Like tonight's dinner, will be squished neath the weight of ten thousand vicious inquiries.
What happened to the questions of last February's poem? Who invited that wanker?
The health inspector's knocks,
Always punctual & always ill-timed,
Have shaken the staff to the holes of their holy sox.
In strictest verse & meter his report is rhymed.
The administration of the household will look both ways before deciding the vegetarian option.
The Princess of Belarus has arrived without her secret friend to spank her.
I have been struggling to change the subject
Away from the issues plaguing Rwanda's economy,
But my idiot brother has no respect
For what the upper-class doesn't find funny.
And the lovely young heiresses, whose blouses' integrities fragilely depend on a safety pin,
Like tonight's dinner, are already looking to East Asia for a righteous multicultural adoption.
This 1897 Cognac can barely wash away the taste of those peasant dishes.
Has my wife forgotten the reason
I've lost my robes to the hungry wind?
And why we don't serve pitted fruit at the end of the season?
But all my opinions she must naggingly rescind.
My brother & the Princess are still arguing about whether the Solanum Nightshade was genetically modified,
While the Gringo slaves of minimum wage are buried beneath piles of dirty wishes.
Putting my feet up on my great-great-grandmother's ottoman,
I can reflect upon a couple well-phrased biblical verses.
There are a few hostile mergers which I ought to plan,
But right now I'm content to let the demitasse scream its curses.
And the taxidermied venison heads, near the ceiling, noble & sad-eyed,
Like tonight's dinner, have been taken from the wild & irreverently deep-fried.
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