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Poem

[Written with much love and bonhomie in
response to Milt’s Poem ‘Hearty Poetry Soup’]

                 *

Not so long ago in a land called Soup
A warlock gathered a talented group
These were the wordsmiths who writ all Soup Lore
But the warlock decided that they’d write no more 

For he had been born to be ‘Soup Laureate’
A role he’d hold longer the more folk he ate
Even a warlock is sometimes unreasoned
Not much consolation…when you’ve been lightly seasoned

So here in this cauldron we boil and we bubble
Somehow I sense we’re in some kind of trouble 
My hope is this as I cling to the edge
I hope I’m the meat and not the two veg

But, lo, I discover that Milt’s being mother
He’s spotted my need to write something or other 
His warlock-like methods at first seemed remiss
Until this old turnip sat down to write this

But still I find one thing decidedly troubling
I look like a beetroot from all of that bubbling
My poor scalded feet are developing bunions 
So at my next barbecue… Milt’s in the onions!

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