Something in the Soup

The waiter won’t admit it

He doesn’t see me droop

As I notice something strange

Is sitting in my soup.

It should have been delicious

And filled me with delight,

But I can’t enjoy it

With that unappealing sight.

My date just chats away

Oblivious to my problem

She has a pickle of her own:

The pudding menu column.

I quickly make excuses

And head straight for the kitchen,

I want the chef to know of my

Protesting petition.

But halfway through the door

A hear a ratty squeak.

I spot a host of creatures

Scurrying on furry feet.

“What is this?” I ask the chef

And gesture to the floor

But his accented reply is:

“Who let you through the door?

This right here; delecacy

But our real coup

Is our tasy and delightful

Cockroach carrot soup!”

© Ben Cotton


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