The English make wine,
As the Spanish write verse:
Two virulent vines
Whose berries be nurs’d
Past o’er sweetened sentiment.
Tut! What a shame.
No Bacchus in London,
No Shakespeare in Spain.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Poem: The Rancid Clams Of Amsterdam
Twenty cans of rancid clams
I ate last night in Amsterdam,
And how they passed a health exam,
No lucid man can understand.
Overpriced and poorly planned,
I bought them from a roadside stand.
A land-clam stand that’s undermanned.
With runny nose and unwashed hands,
He tossed them in a dirty pan.
No place to sit, I had to stand
And eat them by the garbage can.
Full of sand, these blubber bands,
They smelled of smelt but tasted bland.
Like dumplings from my gastric glands,
They went in grey but came out tan.
My bedpan’s crammed with contraband.
Goddamn your clams of Amsterdam.
Next time I’ll get the leg of lamb.