The pride of cooking prawns defines what makes
the guests your friends; you claim for taste you’d
peel ‘em anyway, but too many of ‘em breaks the
golden rule your commonsense acclaims; t’ keep
the busy hands away from mouth until the shells
are safely charred or all departed for a burying.
The discipline it takes is farcical & thin, too easily
dispelled by fragrant scents you cannot spurn for
fear there’ll be too few to satisfy th’ likes of you &
canny epicures who know just when to show; tho’
when you choose the time to do the job can ease
those faithless burdens making much of modesty
And so today with breakfast on the way & sun at
least above the arc we’re shelling prawns; that it
sounds bizarre is doubtlessly our case for baited
breath retained within an amnesty we’d steal - &
crashed forlorn into that barbecue we’d planned
as evening’s grandiose; - our friends reveal they
Don’t eat barbied prawns they have to peel
© 29 January 2016, I. D. Carswell
No comments:
Post a Comment