Not Where Jeff Is a Chef

It had yet to enter Mister Jeff’s head That I know him like the back of my hands: Never would ask him bread let alone bed, News of this sure to make it to distant lands… The choice of a dog alive or lion dead, A slow building with bricks or the fast with sands; An offer of dying after being The Head Or remaining alive just a helping hand, A tranquil life in a lack-luster homestead, Or a stormy one in a villa quite grand, Smoldering with rage for Virgin one did wed… Or shining with a whore who’d released her hand It has just struck me I might, again, meet Jeff: “God! Not in a hotel where Jeff is a chef: Still I’d know his dish, if he changed Jeff to Clef, A face surgery that says Clef, not Jeff.