Ode to a Grecian Bag of Chips

Ode on a Grecian Bag of Potato Chips



THOU still uneat'd bride of the fry,

Thou elegant babe of salts time once knew,

Stay agape at night and eat who cannot

A lofty crink'd bag the color of leaves:

What leafy gringo hast eaten my bounty?

Or deity with stylized hair and a taste for adventure?

In the Temple of the Dog I will forge you of iron?

What lords of plenty have sucked the salt from my thumb?

What pipe hast you smoke'd out of?



Heard Bon Jovi in the dead of night

Are my chips to your liking?

Not to be confused with iron mats of coal,

Pipe your songs of Western justice into my suckered pie:

Fair young maiden, why do you dip in the sour't of creams?

Thy song, of ukulele hip hop makes me yearn for Dan Rather,

Bold squirrels comb my hair in wrath!

Though I can't complain,

She reminds me when my honey cakes are done,

Forever I will eat potato chips in your arms!



Ah, you sweet minx! You surprise me like a polecat

Your splendor is untouched by Nabisco or Mr. Coffee

And, smelly nugat, wear'd to and fro,

For my love is rich with the hems of Old Navy slacks,

More cheetoes, more ruffles, more chili and gold!

For my love is like a red, red baboon,

For my hiney smells like rich onions,

All of my doodie'd shoots are clogged with rich cheese,

That smell is Drakkar and bunt cake,

A burning fire of lust for your sweet wood chipper.



Who wrote that one Journey song I love?

To Dagoba, Yoda whils't goeth,

Lead'st my collection of chess pieces to and tally ho!

And all the marmots and geese take the shape of purple oxen?

What is that smell?

Or that visual experience I just had through my nose?

Is that door ajar?

And, sucking fat from your Oprah waffle

Will you tell me a story about flaxen knobs of corn?

Why do you run when I fart?



O Mayor McCheese! Play that rhyme about mints

Of how they sat nestled on your tongue

With the taste of Formica in the trees,

Thou, I cannot ride a bear like you

As the wind doth blow on my Mr. T sculpture!

When you wish upon a star,

Thou has wish'st a good night of bowling

Than our hunting craft of whips and stones

Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all

Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.