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.
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