Poetry's Soup

Stumbling along the worn down pine, Clamoring like a babe against floor and a table leg I found the stool to shame all other stools. Propping my bony bottom atop Like a laggardly old lion, Done with denunciation, Dismal and downgraded, While awaiting the minstrel's mentions of a certain sort of sustenance. "I have here for you soup My little lamb." Yet a lion here I sit! With letters here I writ! While in my bowl She spills the same. Despite my place. Despite my name. I take a spoonful Maybe more. My taste buds take off Beyond flavor's shore. I've now flown the coop Just for poetry's soup.