White House Menu Poem by Ima Ryma

That White House chef - I don't trust him.
I heard him tell the President
A recipe that sounded grim,
An Indonesian dish - hint, hint -
Made of a meat, that as a kid,
The President with family,
Though tough, he ate it - yes he did.
And now that chef does wannabe
The preparer of a reserve
For Presidential lips to smack.
That chef looked right at me - what nerve!
I guess I better watch my back.

I'm kinda nervous, doncha know,
Ending up a burger be Bo.