Butter, The Root Of All Evil Poem by Chris Taylor

just want to say right out front that the tone of this quick poem is a little harsh. I took this idea and pushed it way beyond what my wife has spoken to me on the matter. A writer goes to extremes and I thought pushing this in an insane direction would be more funny. This is meant to be humorous make us both smile. I probably will get punched by the wife for this one but, I just had to write about this. Sometimes we argue about the stupidest things. The story goes like this: She went off on my insensibility about morning condiments and I went into a dissertation about the God-given freedoms of being ABLE to put some butter on your jelly toast. We both need to chill out sometimes. Here is a little insight about our running butter war. Ah, the differences between men and women. Will the two ever meet?




Butter, The root of all evil
a poem by Chris


In my morning haste
with no respect to the canners of this great confection
My knife left its little present for you
A huge cream-colored dollop of cancer you call Butter

In my many meetings with my underlings,
with our obsession to rule the world,
We chose to purposely leave some butter in the jelly
Defying all household rules and damning the consequences

For this evil was planned for months
with careful attention to details
Like: the use of Salted or Unsalted butter
Should I swipe it with the corningware knife or the expensive set we use for Thanksgiving

I am surprised you are still standing
for this frontal attack was of course meant to maim and destroy
I awoke that morning, went straight to the safe
and removed the evil plans that started a great household war

I arose early adorned by black ski mask and tiptoed across the kitchen floor
Gently I pulled back the Utility drawer
and removed my implement of holy terror
My filthy hands reached into our cupboard and removed the one item you must hold most sacred
No, not our wedding license, our grape jelly jar

With you still reeling from my
wrinkling of the duvet, I knew it was time to strike
My household guerrilla tactics are legendary and to be feared and respected
I teemed with anticipation; for I knew you were next to open the jar

I giggled with glee; knowing you would furrow your brow
At the glob of goo that would not pass any TSA airport inspection
I went on with my day wondering if you
Were going to throw the whole jar away
Or cut away the tumor with the skill of a surgeon

For it is always my life mission to
hear screeching from the kitchen about my lack of butter control
I live for the start of my day to contain scolding words
Sometimes the toast and the animal cravings can’t be contained

I just want to apologize for my little slip of the knife
I am sure the economy, the war, death and taxes
Can be directly related to my little slip of the wrist in my morning fog
In the future I will try not to push the earth off of its axis so early in the morning

Dear, I love you. Please forgive my gastronomic error