Come Fry With Me

An Ode to a Greasy Spoon

Small wonder that in verse I show respect

To you sweet spoon whose wretched shame I share,

Washed up in filthy water through neglect

By slipshod students famed for lack of care.

Yet, when you’re dipped in soup, your smeary touch

Against my slimy bottom thrills me so,

I long for friendly fingers that could clutch

Your slippery form and never let you go.

Dear spoon, though squeaky clean we’ll never be

For lack of Fairy Liquid in our lives,

I feel convinced that you were made for me

In just the way that forks were made for knives.

When cows jump moons and cats on fiddles play

And little canines laugh to see such fun

Perchance with me, your dish, you’ll run away

And we in greasy bliss shall be as one.