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Because the conversation drifted that way (with a little nudge here and there, perhaps) – and because @arahant pointed out that we had in fact arrived there through the pizza grove – I found myself drafting odes to that prince of foodstuffs. Oh, all right, it’s a fair cop, it doesn’t take much to start me riffing poetical and, falling among good company (ahem), a couple of parodies were but the work of a minute or three:
O, for a flice triangular! that hath been warmed
A decent while in the earthen oven,
Tasting of sunlit slope and thyme-flowers green,
Good cheese and not the box, and companionable talk!
But not with a beaker of faery wine,
Which twinkles, bubbling, at the brim,
Or else I should slip,
Like old Rip, drifting in to the Pizza Grove,
And fade far away into the forest dim …
There should be warning figns up:
Beware the Pizza Grove, my son,
The salmon that wafts, the pansy to catch,
Beware the Arugula Leaf, and shun
The frumptious Dandelion Patch!
(With apologies to Messrs. Keats and Carroll.)
So, good friends, draw up a chair and a slice, if you will; cut yourself a piece of the pie, be you so inclined.
What bad (or good) poetic riffs, parodies, or songs might you have to share? What anecdotes on that noble dish might you have the crust to advance?
Come one, come all, gather round – have a coffee (or something stronger if it’s getting later) or a nice cup of tea, and gather ’round the fire and chat.
(Thanks again go to Monsignor Arahant for ſetting my typography ſtraight here.)
(Edit: Oh, and before I forget, thanks and acknowledgment are due too to @percival whose remarks on the dangers of suspicious salading helped inspire the latter riff.)Published in