The Ridiculous Meal

Once isn't a habit: go to a restaurant
we pay for caviar and tiny ortolans

We consult the paper in the review section
To find the best place with cheapest delectation

We continue here, we continue there
But there are objections, some feel here some feel like there

I propose: lets dive into our appetites since
there's a good bistro, third one after rue Huyghens

We agree to go back up boulevard Raspail
to the bars where we sipped beer through straws in a pail

Hans William Vladimir and Jean Jacques Dupont
swallow greedily from the pitcher on and on

With these best of friends, one is guaranteed a lot
we will finally find a perfect little spot

The knives there are so dull, the tablecloths are trash
the server unmade-up exudes a perfume of hash

The boss  --  a gourmet! get this -- tries to pawn off
pee instead of wine and giblets instead of foi'

The manager's got guts, she rinses the sardines
with some oil, that's in fact the oil from paraffin

The meat that's brought to us is a hard-looking roast
adorned with circles of unwashed beans at most

She offers to us the sticky glutinous crumbs
of a cow's head filled with the carcasses of bugs

She offers to us the gummy jellied trotters
of a pig which they never brought to the washer

Maybe a product here in its natural state
will escape the ill effects of putrefying fate

"Here my dearest darling a little sweet blackjack
Which we here utilise to break the eggs out back"

In the yellow omelette in which there swims parsley
she leaves within alas a morsel so anthracite-y

This nice crispy charcoal which cracks upon your teeth
will wash away the bits of salt stuck underneath

Rather than blackening all our small intestines
we instead devour the simulated porcelains

The hostess who we catch to clean up our messes
is climbing up the walls in her rage's largess

So we swallow up all the forks and the knives
before we put on our coats and run for our lives

Fugitives we gallop in the street amidst the snow
without fear of tearing in our grays any holes

We end off at one hundred fifty metres
until we see her play on the gazometre

and we break out into a flurry of insults
--  manager of the bistro, occult poisoner

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