I ordered some fried fatback,
From my favorite bistro.
In the stack of crispy pork,
I saw the words that were wrote:
Et benedicite nomini ejus*
I sang these words confusedly.
At the table next to me,
This old man,
He played one.
He grabs a crab leg,
To beat ‘them’.
His conviction is to crusade against all others.
But the waitress offers me a cup of coltsfoot tea,
For my respiratory disease.
All in good time,
The pearl I found in my dollar oyster on the half shell,
Will cease to be calcium carbonate aragonite and conchiolin,
And will simply become the Pearl Poet of the Chevalier Gawain Green.
How is this possible?
My insides feel like the inside of the restaurant.
Too much A.C.
A chill taking the heat off of the hot tea,
In the late, late night.
My outsides feel like a Canons Regular of St. Augustine.
* Sing unto the Lord, Bless His Name
** His Truth
Andrew Borne is 2 Cups Poet 1 teaspoon Musician 1/4 teaspoon Salt 1/2 cup Absurdity 3/4 cup Chef 1 egg, beaten 2 1/3 cups Family Man. Mixed together and served raw. His column appears weekly in Oddball Magazine.
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