A Café Fable

A candy, in cellophane, sanguine and pearly,
relaxed in a little cafe.
A patron was pacing,
voracious and spacious.
He graciously ordered a salad his way.
The saccharine suckable he had rejected,
affected, suspected, “I wasn’t detected?”
To which the salubrious salad selected
reflected aloud from its tray:

“A lightning bug’s listlessly lit when it’s larval.
A glare is a glow past a glint.
A mountainous Mediteranean marvel
has much on a minuscule mint.”
The candy was sweet, but was equally brittle.
It called to the cold and calumnious vittle,
“While treating a treat like a trivial tittle,
you’re little more lucious than lint!”

The savory claimant was rosy but paling,
descrying the diner’s return.
“A fan of the clam, as I am,”
said the patron,
I’ll offer your chowder escape from its urn.”
The chowder he’d chosen was hardly astounded,
its ego unbounded (and grounded, it sounded).
It laughed, “Is the rounded confection confounded?
Then listen, you loser, and learn:

“A hut is a habitat hard to get lost in.
Few legs have been sprained from a sprint.
A blistering bowl of the best out of Boston
outmatches a mini’ture mint.”
Contusing contumely to our contender,
who rushed to affront its officious offender:
“Superior soup, when explaining its splendor,
displays not a splendorous splint!”

That delicate dainty was crimson and ashen,
but managed inspirited thought.
When back to the counter the customer cantered,
‘twas but a burrito he bought.
And this, to the disheartened hopeful, was vicious:
“I’m fully in favor of being ambitious,
but you’re as deluded as I am delicious,
and idiots ought to be taught.

“A reed can’t reverberate like a recorder.
A soloist can’t like a quint.
The succulent sustenance South of the Border
makes muck of a minimal mint.”
That comfit discomfitted, jarred by rejections,
was done with dispensing corrosive corrections.
It loudly responded, “You lordly refections
should stifle and stick to your stint!”

Our spited aspirant was flushed and was livid,
its hope in the hopper, and hollered in pain.
The topper: its favorite noshery shopper,
with gusto, approached the assembly again.
He said to the vendor, “My dinner was dandy.
However, the handicapped hope for the handy.
Your crowded consumer requires the candy,
from off of the register plane.”

“Requires the candy?” the candy repeated.
“You offer an obvious hint.
The delicacies you adore are depleted.
You’ve but a diminutive mint.”
Its bawling abashed and bewildered its buyer.
He had, by his lozenge, been labeled a liar.
“You are the deserving dessert I desire,”
he squeaked with a squat and a squint.

“The various victuals I have devoured
have put on my panter their print.
Offensive emissions can be over-powered
by one self-administered mint.”
“Then I,” said the candy, “you truly require!
Behold your definitive defunkifier!
Your swaggering supper will suffer the ire
of this ministerial mint!

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2 Comments

  1. Dr. Hurley’s Digest, Week 25 « Dr. Hurley's Snake-Oil Cure
  2. Dr. Hurley’s Digest Volume I: Poetry « Dr. Hurley's Snake-Oil Cure

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