I do not sing for my supper.
My supper sings for me.
The salad opens.
Followed by rhythmic breadsticks.
A sip of melodic icewater.
Then the chorus of the salad.
The ballad of the soup.
And a half dozen oysters as accompaniment.
Enter the main entree: rack of lamb.
Surrounded by the orchestra of vegetables.
Peas, squash, and carrots! What harmony.
The finale approaches, with truffles and brandy at full volume.
The tablecloth curtain falls.
Simply marvelous! Marvelous!
I stand up and light my lighter.
My supper comes back for an encore.
As i vomit it all over the carpet.