07-15-2016, 01:24 AM
I love the meat that knows its place:
the waft of bacon through the door,
come hither scent with just a trace
of underbelly, the settled score.
Late afternoon the smoking grill
sends signals through the leafed-out trees
with tales of those who've had their fill
amidst the songs of bumblebees.
But midnight stills the hearts of those
who crave no scrap of bone or fat,
who sniff the honey-suckled rose
alighting with the vampire bat.
Bring with you what will feed your beast,
a poem or burger at the least.
the waft of bacon through the door,
come hither scent with just a trace
of underbelly, the settled score.
Late afternoon the smoking grill
sends signals through the leafed-out trees
with tales of those who've had their fill
amidst the songs of bumblebees.
But midnight stills the hearts of those
who crave no scrap of bone or fat,
who sniff the honey-suckled rose
alighting with the vampire bat.
Bring with you what will feed your beast,
a poem or burger at the least.
billy wrote:welcome to the site. make it your own, wear it like a well loved slipper and wear it out. ella pleads:please click forum titles for posting guidelines, important threads. New poet? Try Poetic DevicesandWard's Tips