101017e

Links

I’ve always gone for patties, but them eggs,

They’re fried, not raw, not scrambled, poached or boiled,

And grits! Could write a paean just to grits,

But this just ain’t that pome; this one’s for links,

No not the links where there’s a hole in one,

The links of which hot dogs are but a shade,

The grease of them would kill you now for sure,

You’d better give them to the dog this time.

Gee willikers, there was a time long past,

The links were ev’rything to clear-eyed you,

Aw, yoghurt now for breakfast if at all,

The whole-wheat toast with jam on special days,

And wouldn’t 10-year you have said just kill

Me now, I never want to live like that.

A blank-verse sonnet.