The Traveling Rarebit* Poem by Sidi Mahtrow

It’s said that the rarebit, a non-quadrupled,
long suffering from neglect is dead,
But that’s just a bit of pressmen’s junk,
That history of this creature is true bunk.

No the rarebit is live and well,
Having found another place to dwell,
A bit of Frito band-dito from the store,
Yields a gustatory delight and more.

A heap of cheese wrapped to preserve,
The essence of pepper conserve,
Encased in plastic to ensure,
The contents remain USDA/FDA pure(?)

Velveeta we’re talking about,
A spread that’s rubbery without doubt,
And a flavor not beholden,
To the dairy that’s for certain.

A heap of band-dito chips in a dish,
Slabs of Velveeta added to enrich,
Then into the microwave for a quick zapping,
Merges all into a plastic happening.

Hot and steamy after short seconds,
Results in a goo that defies expression,
It’s rarebit without an English scone,
Melded (should I say melted)
Into a form that lacks backbone.

Shaped not as mother nature intended,
But instead with a covering suspended,
Over the framework of the band-dito pure,
Chips that get soggy, yet endure.

Something for the airport fare,
Best if eaten on a dare,
But regardless, the rarebit has a bite,
Tightens sphincters and holds on tight.

In midair the creature takes on a life of its own,
Bubbling in the stomach caldron,
Sending forth a bit of gas,
That from orifices wantonly pass.

Finally safely on the ground
Last middens of remains are found
Left there by fellow travelers that endure
The pleasures of flying that are pure.

Rarebit, rarebit, rarebit they exclaim,
Ever more a traveler’s bane.

*
Writ in praise of antacids of all description. Sidi J. Mahtrow upon traveling through St. Louis, purchased the Rarebit from an offering in an area called by some a lounge. The rarebit accompanied him on the departing flight and took on a life of its own.