My very first, very rough, attempt at a poem. I was inspired by my dinner and dedicate it to the two lobsters I ate that night. Bless their inspirational.... shells? Your suggestions and opinions are greatly appreciated!
The lobster spoke and told me
No, it came on slow and so
Quiet, then he came out boom
Ing, clopping his fingers and
Snapping, his thumbs were too slow
Though, and my fingers were swift
Still, he spilt my butter and
Stained my shirt, juiced the lemon
And then pummeled my fork.
No, I return his blare but
Crack, with a meat rod for my
Attack, he screams all red and
Shrill, my hand drops down the meat
Harvester, for my ears ring
Loud, till my hands cover up both
Tight, he stops for the time I
Say, you have no right, to take
My fork and poking device.
Red devil spits his juices piping
Hot, fists grab his pincer arms
Twist and wind till his briars pinch
My thumb, his bloody armored joint
Falls, and the lobster wails, my
Arm you pig! I’m less a shell.
Steamed with rage, my lobster drops
Dead, from shock and hate whilst I
Squeeze the butter, lemon zest
Burns my wounds as the butter
makes him swell juicy with salt in
The fiery crustacean’s muscle lumps.
The white meat on my pallet
Is cooked to perfection
I win, I say through chews and
Gulps, your shell’s so soft now no need
For sharp utensils you’ve knocked
Away, leave me to eat my
Hot, summertime ocean grouch.
I’ve outsmarted my prey with
No pleading prayer, though I bless
His heart for being a delight.