Please remember, I am NOT a poet. I have wrote maybe six poems in my life, this one included.
The Dinner Party
It's a dinner party.
You've all been there.
This looks scrumptious, you say
as you sit in your chair.
You bite a morsel,
Filled with flavour and zest,
Another few bites
and you've gulped down the rest.
You sit back in your chair
your stomach a happy beast.
You give kudos to the chef
for the wonderful feast.
Now this is where
it starts to go awry.
The host looks at the food
and out escapes a loud sigh.
Rather than accept with a nod
or a gracious thank you.
The cook starts a long spiel
Oh, what a to-do.
The meat was no good,
To hell with the lot.
It's the worst meal they've made.
It was like eating wood-rot.
The next bash comes at time,
there wasn't enough.
Had they had longer,
it would not be so rough.
Oh no, you start
but get interrupted.
Then they go on,
the herbs calumniated.
It goes on for minutes,
but you sit there and wait.
The time will come
to say what you hate.
From those in need of approval
it's a cry out for praise.
Their self-esteem
in need of a raise.
So you support their habit
like drink for a drunk.
I shake my head,
oh, to what lows I have sunk.
I always say
as I'm leaving the house,
the next time they seek
they will find a louse.
I'll agree their cooking
was rotten as hell.
Almost went for the toilet
because of the smell.
But would that solve the problem?
I think that's how it started.
Not enough praise
from parents long departed.
But, what do I do?
I keep my words to myself.
Cause I hate to cook
and want free meals at their house.
ann elle altman
2 comments:
Oh this is too funny, Ann!
I avoid dinner parties like the plague. But sometimes I get roped in. Usually the problem at the ones I attend are the host and hostess squabbling with each other. It's always a surprise to me...
Elizabeth
Mystery Writing is Murder
Glad you liked it... it's my way of venting.
ann
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