Little Paul Poem by Jan Sand

Little Paul,
No one at all
In anybody’s book,
Had one skill
To make you thrill -
He sure as Hell could cook!

He started out on common things
Like broccoli and onion rings,
Salad greens, al dente rice,
Crisp potatoes fried in oil,
Carrots gently brought to boil,
Frozen pudding served on ice.

He mastered every way to make
Cookies, candies, fluffy cake,
And then invented variations
Made with strange unknown spices,
Assembled them with odd devices,
Evoking happy exclamations.

Enrolled in schools in Paris, France,
He cooked with charm, elegance,
Learned techniques about the oven,
Mastered bar-b-ques and grills,
Sharpened knives, spun pepper mills,
Was picked to cook for a witch’s coven.

There they made strange demands
With screeching voices, waving hands.
They gave him rather suspect meat
To be cooked with blood and slime.
It was, he thought, a messy time,
But he succeeded, - no defeat!

This warped his tastes, his ambitions.
He cooked with no inhibitions.
His culinary spectrum grew.
He steamed old shoes, unskinned mice.
He baked a horrid cake with lice.
Anything arcane and new.

His feel for strangeness matured, grew.
There was no thing he wouldn’t do.
A flying saucer came from space.
Odd things came out to see our world.
Paul fried them up with bacon, curled,
And sprinkled them with thyme and mace.

One day they found his kitchen cleared.
It seemed that Paul had disappeared.
They found his shoes up on a shelf.
His greatest challenge had been met.
His reputation had been set.
For Paul’s last dish was himself!