Chicken Kebab is an
orange fritter, of gastronomic profundity,
That sends my heart
at once a-flitter, in travails of longish brevity.
Sometimes in verse,
sometimes in prose, often with a little lisp,
I’ll wax eloquent
about how I chose, it’s gratifying crisp.
When on the road two
hours are spent, contorted in a scowl,
‘Tis really then that
I lament, the lack of a succulent fowl.
There cannot be a
more greater quest, than one for juicy kay-bab,
Even the whale might
just protest, to leave a piece for Ahab.
Momentarily, I might
desist from eating one on Sunday,
For that’s the day I
can’t resist, a little bit of Tunday.
But on days that I
need a fix, a fifth of a bottle or quarter,
In a dim bar I sit betwixt,
a tandoori bird post slaughter.
From four wheeled
carts and restaurants, and even homemade pickings,
Even some dirty
roadside haunts, where the hen is finger-licking.
That’s my ode, oh
little one, and that bigger one too, to thee,
A tale of longing worthy
of rum, and a piece of chicken on Brie.
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