“Do they have steak?” he said
to his friends, while passing time,
anxiously trying to veil his dread
of dining on sea slippery slime.
“The line’s too long, we’ll have to leave,
let’s find another place!”
And for a moment he seemed relieved,
thinking logic had favored his case!
But then the line began to move,
and horror sculpted his face.
“I’m approaching,” said he, “the awful truth
of a stomach retching disgrace!”
“The price is too high, I don’t feel well,
I have to call my Mom!”
His panic pealed like a fire alarm bell,
and exploded like a bomb!
Then a grating screech direct from Hell
sent shock waves through his head.
A slime smeared waiter coarsely yelled,
“Seats for eight!” he almost fled!
“I’m lost,” he moaned, marching in file
to his seat like a prisoner in jail.
“Whad’ll it be?” asked a waiter named Lyle,
“Oysters!” they cried, “Five or six pails!”
Exclaiming “I’m sick!” he stared at his plate,
a quivering mountain of gray.
Teeth clenched tight, he saw his fork shake
as he willed it toward his tray.
With watery resolve he pierced the mess,
as if trying to spear a ghost.
His mind rebelled in revolting distress,
as he slid one down his throat!
His senses, like wood deeply petrified,
wondered if he were dead.
With a start he stood, eyes staring wide,
“Damn! These are good!”he said.
- FRITZ CRYTZER