The deep broasted lard a la carte
comes a top sloppy blanched greens
over salted and under flavored. And,
for the discerning palette,
might I suggest a warmed sniffer
of freeze dried rinds, liquified
under high pressure using
a secret method known only
to our Aztec Sou Chef
and his mute assistant, Molly
(who is, by all accounts,
one hell of a girl, in spite of
her strict adherence to a
pay to play attitude; our
poor poor Sou Chef
has to pay for even the most
conciliatory of kisses, and her lips,
he assures me, always taste of
who or whatever she had in it
most recently.) And if neither of those
appeals, sir, might I suggest a
nice cocktail or a ceviche salad
made from the fingers of babies
who died from SIDS?