I Will Not Name the Restaurant
I will not name the restaurant,
Because it might have been a fluke
But after I ate their offering,
I came home and did a puke.
I pictured the cook, her hair askew,
Letting little drops of it land in the stew.
As she spewed forth a wretched pile
Of words known only to a wicked few.
I pictured her apron messed up with glob.
As she warmed up this smelly slop.
I pictured fish all over the grill in haste,
Which gave my chicken a fishy taste.
I met my friend there, both had the same fate.
I pictured the kitchen laughing at us with vim and spice,
As we tried to choke down the stuff on our plate.
I will not name the restaurant, for it would not be nice.
Here is my friend’s phone number. She is not as kind as I.
Tell her who you are with your usual grace.
She is home sick, mad as a hot fly.
I am sure she will tell you the name of the place.
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