I went to Derby
today, and as I was approaching the entrance to the shopping mall where I was
to meet Helen for coffee, I saw a complete, cooked sausage lying on the
pavement.
It struck me that if I were a poet, I could wax lyrical on
the lone state of this most humble of culinary items. I might have mused on the
reason for its inglorious fate, and considered the possible effect of its loss
on the erstwhile owner. As it was, I could think of nothing to say beyond
simple reportage, which proved what I’ve long been coming to suspect. I’m no
poet.
8 comments:
I'm sure you could have managed a ditty at least Mr B! I'm back and very amused, thank you.
But it looked so sad, Mel. Ditties need to be jolly.
Oh, but who'd want to read poetry about food?
Why, a poetically-inclined epicure, of course.
The cover of Sue Limb's book 'The Wordsmiths at Gorsemere' has William Wordsworth walking haughtily away and saying 'Not now, Dorothy. I'm contemplating my withered turnip.' That's what poets do, isn't it?
Yep. Food comes up a lot when i'm writing. OR thinking. I think i'll go have a look in the kitchen...
Suggest you try aubergines. They're smooth and sensual and your sort of colour. And I thought Americans always spelt it 'yup.'
In the south we say it Yep.
'Yup' sort of goes with 'Aw, shucks, ma'am.' Cowboy language.
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