Epistle I: To DDS, Of Endive

Nothing so foul as what Tonight you serve,
This vile Vegetable, horrid Hor D'oeuvre,
Palatable when neither hot nor cold,
Ne'er by my Words nor Deeds to be extoll'd.

How many Students pass it up each day,
How many more lack Sense to stay away?
Alongside Fruitstuffs, here, tender and sweet,
Of vibrant Colours, of Nutr'ents replete.
Here Yogurts, with Texture smoothe and creamy,
And there Broccoli, fresh and steamy.
Let them eat Cake, and Steak, and greas'd 'Taters,
Pizza, Burgers, Hot Dogs, Fries, Tomaters.
Or Herbavores may choose such lighter Fare,
As MaPo Tofu, Peas, and roasted Pear,
With sim'ring Sauces and deft Hand prepar'd;
Whether the Student's veg- or Carnivore,
'Longside these Options Endive is abhorr'd.

Why then the Time, Space, and Energy waste,
To present this Plant so awry of Taste,
That it pleases nei'er Masses nor Tongue,
With its Flavor not unlike old horse Dung.

Carrots, better endow'd with Vit'min A,
More often are consum'd, less thrown away,
Agree as Sides to Entrees a-plenty,
As stir-fried Slices and in Salads minty,
Even when smothered with a greasy Paste,
Sugared, buttered, spic'd they're not a Waste:
Because it's so that if the Base is good,
Culinary Abuse may be withstood.
But "good" does not these endive Leaves describe,
Thus cannot Sugar, Butter, Spice ascribe,
Any of their sundry Qual'ties pleasing;
Endive is, in short, a waste of Seas'ning.

How soft the the Flavor! fresh Leaves of Spinach,
The tender Tufts of foliate Plummage:
To me, Callista, prove their own fine Worth,
By extracting such Iron from the Earth,
As can richen Blood with Hemoglobin,
Without which I would wain weak and mopin'.
All Eyes may see the Change within me rise,
With Blood that's rich, my Laughter soars---it flies.
Sure, Endive boasts large amounts of Fiber,
Vitamins E, C, K and other dire
Nutr'ents which would help to sustain its Host,
But that matters little, for it's so gross.

Loath'd Endive, that odious Bane of the salad Bar,
Offends my palate---Aye, it goes too far!
Worse still when served up sickly-yellow, hot,
All limp, and wet, and surely soon to rot.

Students, of sound and stable Judgement, know,
'Tis not worth eating, and so they forego;
Unhappy those who accident'ly take,
Even the smallest Serving on their Plates,
For a Bite once taken in, once chew'ed,
Cannot in polite Company be spew'ed,
Their Tongues may curl, their Lips may well go numb,
But to the Urge to wretch they can't succumb:
For Grace mandates, Decorum straight commands,
That those refin'd, Unpleasantness withstand;
And those refin'd know there's naught else more crude,
Than to at a Table expel one's Food.

Then there are poor Souls taught to clean their Plates,
Who eat all their food, no matter how base;
For these poor Souls I offer up a Pray'r,
And distract myself so as not to stare,
At their Misfortune, at their painful Plight,
As they gulp down each and eve'ry Bite.
Why then Surprise when they loudly declare,
That foco Food they shall henceforth foreswear?

Why pique our Buds with Food that Pleasure brings?
If only to then to dish out Food that stings:
Now deep in our bowels Complaints are mounting,
Which we won't (politely) be recounting.
Conscience should grip you, you should feel Remorse;
But you do not---you're DDS of course.
You value feedback from student Patrons,
Only when receiv'd in a Form that burns.
Or, rather, recycles (#green Init'tive),
Well, here's my Feedback: --insert expletive--,
Endive disgusts, it is not fit to serve,
Whoever does so has a lot of Nerve;
Endive revolts, so bitter and so foul,
Prolong'd Exposure leads to perm'nant Scowl.
We all reject this unfit edible,
And demand Meals more wholesome, credible.
The Tribe has spoken, our Edict is clear:
Besmirched Endive is not welcome here!

Epistle to a Flower, On Her Leaving Me, In the Autumn

As some shy fledgling, whose sense of life's unrest,
Does move to stretch the wing upon fair Zephyr's crest,
To fall into the sky and then the sun,
To do it all or in her quest be undone;
With many fruitful seeds to sow,
But na'er the time to stay and watch them grow:
Thus away from me did this fair lover slip,
Without the sweetness of a single kiss;
A pleasure never had and oft deferred,
For she was shy of me, and I of her.
Away to nighttime, smoke, and prose at best,
Breathed from another's stale-air breast,
Away from words, and walks, and flowers,
To silent, stagnate, smothering hours;
The which are filled with further discontent,
Through knowing that her time is idly spent,
In waging tongue, curling lips, and feigning gay,
For yet has she known gayer day;
Still, she may keep false hearts aplenty,
And with them dust bland hours four and twenty;
Also with dull tomes, tight shoes, and brackish water,
For such things are equally pleasing one and other.
One such heart yourself may 'specially please;
Whose brain is numb and whose passion a soft breeze,
Who makes you gifts of someone else's rhyme,
Wields prepackaged love and thinks it fine.
Who, when your humors ebb and flow,
Responds not when they come, nor sees them go;
But has a loyalty fast and true,
Albeit to many things above you.
On some dark night mayhaps a vision comes,
Of marvelous moments spent in dazzling sun;
In dreams you shirk Time's authority,
To stand in Africa, with me;
Air hung with sundry thoughts unsaid,
Yet sketched in smiles, by one another to be read;
Sights which when you slumber wax immense,
but with your opening eyes, condense.
Thus away songs of love and days of Thor,
to thrift store romance evermore.
So when I pause to think of you,
(And am graced with company by my Muse)
Lending neither eye nor ear,
to those about me true, and dear:
Seeing shade caress your curves,
and growing bold, I taste your words,
am cut short by my friend, Reality,
I swallow them and watch you flee;
You seek your truth, and thus do roam,
but having mine, I'm always home.


*Thanks to Alexander Pope for the skeleton and the inspiration.