Long Over a barrel Poems
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Hands clench stuck in a culinary trench with no French
Devotion can’t bench sensory commotion a saucy wench
Emotions wrench if no whiff on the breeze of cheese stench
Potions & notions quench..ocean lotions tastebuds drench
For a foodie bouillebaisse with timeless grace like Judi Dench
No dodgy Brigitte Bardot politics or slick card tricks of tarot
Go for Gallic garlic gall.. all will enthrall when in Gaul..Escargot
Choir of desire ce soir more beurre.. pot au feu.. boudin noir
The star steak au poivre or oeuvre as they make fresh tartare
Mussel frites hustle.. boozy bustle.. shellfish tussle of a bistro
Cassoulet with pomme puree then creme brulee classics spar
Foie gras a mardi gras or bizarre faux pas in brasserie bazaar
Pastry crew Michelin route could be choux or tasty en croute
Never hasty flavour douche a louche croquembouche maestro
Pouting fondue goo spouting fountains on mountains outing
Creamy tartiflette or steamy andouillette from piggy toilette
Forget Pret get a better baguette cornichons raclette touting
What’s more francois then petit pois or dreamy dauphinoise
Carbs shouting.. barbs flouting.. baked camembert scouting
No doubting dishes with calories sprouting diets are a routing
For some it’s foodie hell for me Heaven..my true blue belle
Fruit de Mer in that terracotta apparel has me over a barrel
Travel under the spell crustaceans relations you fell.. unravel
Shell fish fresh from saline swell my divine dell in La Rochelle
No askance glance at the chance for your palette to dance
In a trance at how they enchant stuff always buff & enhance
Know in advance their cultural stance.. revolution..the lance
Saw red aristocrats dead off with their head no longer prance
Instead perchance adored smorgasbord hoard vive la France
Oh, when did evolution end
Or was it just a passing trend
That ran its course and then got worse
Or is it just a fading curse
For monkey’s would deny such kin
That say they are the root of men
For even the most vile Jackals
Ever put their foes in shackles
And yet these homosapiens
Claim they’re where evolution ends
That should there be a fall from grace
There’s nothing that could take their place
They have no clue the cats are waiting
And purring, mewing traps they’re baiting
Indoors, outdoors, all are feral
And “owners” all over a barrel
The fox is sly, the bear a brute
But kitty cats are oh so cute
And dogs, poor fools, will do as told
As long as kitty refills their bowls
(Here, Clark Gable is speaking.
Gaylord Langland was the character
he played in the just-completed
movie. "Trotsky" is his nickname
for Arthur Miller and the "little
girl" is Marilyn Monroe. Gable did
not attend the wrap party and died
of a hreat attack the following day.)
Gaylord
Everything just happened wrong.
It'll do that, sometimes.
A movie set is like a ship, I guess.
Some are happy, some not.
I'll skip the party.
I've seen enough,
and I'm feeling kind of rough.
Trotsky? I won't bad-mouth the guy.
He knows so many things,
but he doesn't know women.
It was sad to watch him try.
When a woman decides, inside,
to pass on you, you're screwed.
Not even dynamite will do.
I told him, "Don't cling.
Stop thinking you can change things."
His intellect is all he had,
and he certainly deployed it.
But pain is part of the deal.
Can't none of us avoid it.
The little girl? We had a fling.
She's not like anybody thinks.
The brassy, buxom *****
is some ad-man's creation.
She's a brittle little child.
Her skin is too thin.
You cut your hand, she feels it.
In my philosophy,
it's a simple equation:
they pay me, I show,
ready to go. I don't know
why they need these
analysts and therapists.
Business before show.
She asked a bunch of stuff,
couldn't get enough.
Wanted my suggestions.
Hungry to hear about Harlow,
got me over a barrel
on Yvonne De Carlo.
Even asked about Carole.
I said, "Easy, Harietta.
You'll never know a man better
by asking him questions.