A Dish Fit For The Gods Poem by Dónall Dempsey

We had the best table
at the very edge of creation.

Our waiter
(the Devil you know)

looking so
debonaire and almost human

rattling off
an expensive menu.

Embarrassingly I had to have it translated into Mortal.

The Devil's faux
supernatural accent

really grated
and I could detect

a slight Aberystwyth
tone.

'Now, this night
of nights

we are serving
a very rare Kraken

fried in a rich
imagination.

Or a superb Leviathan
basted in delicious mythological sauce.

I'm afraid the slightly sautéed souls are off.

And to drink
we have the finest minds

(from all time)

our cellars are the envy
of the Imaginary.

Or may I be so bold as to suggest
the latest universe?

Or a sparkling non-alcoholic
sub-conscious.

And for starters?
Some screams perhaps? '

God burps:
'I pray thee, pardon! '

I apologised
said I had already eaten

in a previous life
and that I was

anyway
a dreamatarian.

But if I could
have a glass of H2O?

I listened to the table talk
understanding very little

I didn't speak
fluent Creationese.

I politely made my excuses
and left

...before the after dinner
speeches.