"To Shelley's Skylark: An Autumnal Admonition"
It never fails: soon as the sun's crossed south,
the equinox brings out in us the mood
to gratify one orifice--the mouth,
and even poets' fancies turn to food.
Inspired thoughts no longer soar; they're stewed,
baked, roasted, wokked, parboiled, or friccaseed
in gravy rich in wine and herbs, imbued
with flavors of the vine and field, all freed
by master culinary skill to feed
the fading year's last hunger which now grows
until it overshadows other need:
to stuff ourselves with life and then to doze.
So, Skylark dear, you'd best not soar with pride
this time of year; you'll end up batterfried.
[This message has been edited by Howard (edited November 12, 2003).]
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