...in a sociable experiment? In honor of a local dining institution, I've cooked up a middle stanza based upon a [Poe]tically perennial favorite; but it's missing a little something—salt, maybe.
You, add a few words, or a line, or more, and let's make "stone soup" poetry together, eh?
As contributions come in, I'll come back and add them to the poem.
It may take us a while, but there's really no rush, after all.
Post some "ingredients" below in the comment box,
and let's see how many cooks it really takes to spoil a broth!
(I'll even do the dishes...)
Twohey’s.
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I dare open that gossip, so spry. A bottomless pit reveals my inner eye
One that takes and wants and needs and never fills, but so hard I try
I hear the buzzards blustery approach, cawing, cackling. Is it at me?
It's my soul they peck on with beaks, like yellowing leaves on a tree.
Food my comfort, my friend, my blanket of soft buttered rye,
Won't you fill me and cause their taunts to flap and fly?
(Thanks, Connor! aged 17)
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Then at length I finally ordered sides which on the greasy bordered
And their platters many fat grams - many calories did store.
Fried in such deep fat this snack’ll work like an arterial spackle.
Hark! e’en now, hear vultures cackle from their perches, “Have some more!”
Laughing while their great wings flap and croaking loudly "Have some more
Onion rings, and even more!"
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.I cry out, "But my stomach is sore!" yet still they screech their gleeful cry,
"Have some more, have some more!"
(Thanks to Iain, aged 14!)
. (OR HERE!!)
