Hartwig's idea of heaven, if you please,
includes lots of hard bottoms slick with grease,
and don't forget the nuts, of course, which he
adores, and licks enthusiastically.

Ms. Adams writes delightfully of pears
resembling women's bodies, which remind me
my Bartlett butt's expanded unawares;
it's rare I sense a stare, these days, behind me.

[Michael Cantor]

Belushi? What a misbegotten rant!
This thread has now arrived at empty cant
or verse or worse - I must adjust your slant:
the truth is, Sue thought I was Cary Grant.




[This message has been edited by Michael Cantor (edited November 24, 2003).]

[Jerry Glenn Hartwig]

Rosa Rugosa's a mind like a gutter
as filthy as something from out of a bog
and actually I prefer bottoms much softer
as for licking my nuts - I'm not a dog!

[This message has been edited by Jerry Glenn Hartwig (edited November 24, 2003).]

The pies are done (a little burnt),
I've overcooked the bird,
the beans are black (I wish they weren't),
the gravy understirred,
and cooking lessons never learnt
must have the final word.

But though the dish I pass to you
is drab and cold and dry,
and tender as a saddleshoe,
offending nose and eye,
this bile's the best that I can do--
Bon apetit (poor guy)!

[grasshopper]

This is strange, as I responded to a 'Lurve and Lust' challenge a few days ago on another board, and the poem will do for this thread, I think. Should I mention that it has gone down well on a couple of poetry-boards? Perhaps not.....

Afters

Unpeel me slowly, like the fruit
you placed on a white plate
ready to accompany the wine,
or the cake, frilly-papered,
that you eyed while you ate
your salad and brown bread.

The apricot warms, ripening,
the cake crumbles in its case,
sugar crystallising and re-melting.
Taste me slowly. Let me melt
into the granules of your tongue
like icecream on shingle.

Make me zing like lemonade
after strawberries, like sherbet
on a rod of liquorice. Make me
flesh and sponge, sweet
and sour, savoured, swallowed,
assimilated. Make me muscle.

(Maz)

[Jim Hayes]

Culinary Milestones

Although I’d like to shoot the lout
who introduced the Brussels sprout
I’ll toast the first, con obligato,
to take a bite from a tomato,
and he (albeit it was a dare)
who first partook of Camembert,
as well, the first who ever gulped
an oyster, jellied eel or pulped
entrails that he called pork sausage,
or pheasant hung till God knows what age
But most, I’ll toast the man who risked
A lobster- be it boiled or bisqued.


Jim Hayes


[This message has been edited by Jim Hayes (edited December 01, 2003).]

[Terese Coe]

The Mystery Dish

Please remove the parsnips from my sight.
Their presence is a personal affront,
arousing queasy guests to sudden flight—
and is that rabbit, or a nouvelle stunt?
Perhaps it's just a random act of spite,
revenge, or else the carcass of a runt.

One dinner I attended seated thirty,
and at each place appeared a pair of prongs
with which to nibble what appeared half-dirty
and what another guest picked up with tongs
and ventured to the kitchen to abandon.
(The host employed a temp to act as stand-in.)

The entities they serve these days are legion
and if I had a choice, a liquid diet
from any but the most distinctive region
would banish hunger and avert a riot.

Terese

[Henry Quince]

So far I give the prize
To tofu, prince of lies.




Gourmet’s Delight

As I thumbed through the menu at Maxim’s
And sipped a Martini the while,
I noticed a spare waiter scratching
His bottom, without shame or guile.

He scratched and I tried to ignore him,
I focused my mind on the page;
He did it again, still I bore him;
then again, and I got in a rage.

I spoke — I’m not one who avoids
a dispute (I was clenching my fist):
“Do you have,” I inquired, “Haemorrhoids?”
Said the waiter “Just what’s on the list.”

[Janet Kenny]

A poem by a great Australian actor, dancer, comedian from early films and music hall,

George Wallace.

The Waiter

"What will you have?" asked the waiter, reflectively picking his nose.

"Two boiled eggs, you bastard. You can't put your fingers in those."