There’s a fly in the soup! Is there much I can do?
I don’t feel quite like eating now. Who the hell would?
Yet, you say with a poker face, “Just scoop it out,
Then the soup will be edible.” I have great doubt.
Scooping out every bit indeed does the most good…
Then, sandblasting the soup bowl ‘til it becomes new.
But, not even a clean bowl am I ready for.
That my fast waning appetite for common sense
And some truth and civility can’t be ignored
Is the number one reason options are explored
For alternative nourishment. Screw the suspense!
When I’m served what’s not wanted, I don’t ask for more.
The fly and all its maggots and compromised germs
Make what was once a good meal something become foul.
But what will die of hunger is only my fear.
I can feed myself elsewhere. Thank God that that’s near.
In that place, I’ll not hold my nose and wear a scowl.
I, the ultimate chef, shall prepare on my terms.