by Nick Gisburne
I always felt my folks were foodies. Wrong!
My father’s Sunday supper showed me that.
Dissected dolphin droppings don’t belong
Inside the pickled colon of a cat.
I saw him search through grandma’s baking bones,
The pointy ones, for children she would choke.
Ground up with force-fed camels’ kidney stones,
His penguin pâté stank of sour smoke.
I’m doubtful those were sausages at all.
Their tiny eyes kept winking in the pan.
And someone, soon, will miss that buttered ball,
Presumably a most unhappy man.
But let me state his most infernal fault:
The glazed gorilla, shameful without salt.
