The Food Writer

At last, flat flippancy commences a sumptuous feast,

His stomach is full of mercy; he is to challenge it.

In him, the working intestines of a grain fed elephant,

With not a hint of the heifer to bolster his waistline.

He the Garrulous Gourmand, to say the least,

An impresser of the publishers in the use of his vowels.

Born to describe the menus at his fake Tudor table,

The entrees, the mains and classy liqueurs that cleanse.

 

A calculating chef seeds him between vast courses

And willow waitresses serve him, in unbuttoned blouses.

Their loosened breasts are not for his amusing,

But to remind him that he channels Henry the Eighth.

And he can eat what he likes, until time is mature,

And when his engorged ego has reached its flattest C.

His diaries of discomfort are for curious pleasuring;

Watching for Michelin stars, when he comes a calling.

 

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