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Cooking Rabbit With Just a Dash of Poe (a poem depicting a near-tragedy)

Once upon a Sunday dreary, somewhat tipsy, somewhat weary,
Marinated rabbit I desired to serve at dinnertime.
While I stood there, cutting, hacking—I heard heels a-clicking, clacking,
My dogs were yipping, yapping, then the front door's ding-dong chime.
It’s that Donna Vinicetti! It is she who rings my chime.
She may do so, anytime.

Ah, the sport of silly banter makes slow time rush in a canter.
Never mind, you pickled rabbit, with your flesh so pinkish-pale;
Even in your startling hue, you can't eclipse her gorgeous view—
But this rare and radiant maiden is the friend of my wife, Gail—
Who would slap me, rap me—even scrap me, should I ever fail.
Rabbit, you look pinkish-pale.

“Someone there?” I heard my never-tiring, busy wife inquiring
From a distant anteroom, where she tried out her power broom.
“Only me!” called Donna, butting right against my plastic cutting—
Board—to let the truth be known, she'd taken up all elbowroom.
And my wife? She so enjoyed the suction of her power broom,
She kept cleaning every room.

Then, those two radiant girls consumed martinis, and a drink that swirls,
Leaving me and pink-pale bunny at the greasy cutting board,
For they knew that I would cook that pickled bunny for my girls,
Well enough to win once more—a culinary arts award
(Praise alone, from those rare maidens, would suffice to be reward—
If they scrubbed this cutting board).

Pickled bunny, pinkish pale, in this endeavor I can’t fail;
Seasoned, salted, wheat-flour dusted, you shall now be set aside . . . .
“Where is my iron pot—hey! Gail?” And she found it without fail.
So, I browned that pale and pinkish bunny, turning it from side
To side, then doused its flesh with marinade, and all I lightly fried—
well—thank you for the ambulance ride.

Now I hear that pump's so cheery chucking, pumping, eerie,
Greedy noises. Pale and pinkish—bacteria-laden rabbit,
Those two maidens in full bloom, nearly ended in an early tomb.
Here, in this so god-forsaken room, noisy stomach pumps
Are pumping . . . sucking, burbling, through the limpid plastic hose
Pints of deadly salmonella— Dimmit, dammit, this came close!
Oh, tainted bunny, you sure fooled my nose.

Last few words: 
just a fun write. May E. A. Poe forgive me.
Editing stage: 


you had a rare time; [probably the cause of that salmonella poisoning]. Ah, poor Jerrak, he didn't know so well. Funny story and told with aplomb. [I hear that orange marmalade goes better with it though.] Ha, ha, ha! ~ Geezer.

Come to Chat on the Darkside
every other Saturday night 8pm to ?
Bring your dark and delicious work
to show.

can you imagine me, dressed up like Elmer Fudd, crooning "I'm gonna hunt me a wabbit," only to end up with food poisoning?
No, that would be carrying my fun write too far. But, Donna is real, and it is she who can be a pain in the . . . rump. Thanks for reading. Jerry

author comment

I hope that you had fun writing it.
Why not invite EAP for dinner ? (He lives in the Rue Morgue)

Critique is a compliment
Kind regards, Alan

if today is Tuesday, then it's your lucky day because I'm serving free wabbit stew--maybe. Bring Poe along. He's been stored in that morgue too long. Thank you for reading. Jerry

author comment

lovely just lovely now that I ache from laughter
it was fun

Let your mercy spill on all those
burning hearts in hell( L.Cohen)

trust me, I did not intend to hurt you with explosive laughter; just a bite of my pickled wabbit alone would have sufficed, lol. Thanks for reading and laughing, Chrys. Jerry

author comment

Enjoyed and laughed out loud, Jerry. Except I feel sorry for the poor rabbit, being a vegetarian myself. But one can't change the world, tho' I wish I could.
I think Lynda could read or sing this one also. Have you asked her?
Good take on Poe!

"The very existence of libraries affords the best evidence that we may yet have hope for the future of man." T.S. Eliot, from The Wasteland.

I don't care much for meat, either. But at the ranch, during those hayrides, we had to feed our guests semi-raw steaks or they would grumble. Nowadays, Lynda uses meat only sparingly for flavoring the soup. Oh, why did nature endow us with teeth?
Btw, yes, Lynda could have read my poem or invent a little tune, but she is too modest to take over my show, lol. Thanks, Gracy. So long, Jerry

author comment
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