Hypocrisy Confessed

     Hypocrisy Confessed

There are those times

When I enjoy

A murdered leg

Or rib

Or thigh.


Call it steak

To make


Feel comfortable,

The rumblings of the mind assuaged.

Most of the time,

Prime hungry, up to eating like a horse,

I don’t eat cow (of course not horse),

But making food

Not rude or vulgar,

I, non-fake and non-pretender

Eat my beans, my reds and greens

With appetite.

No bright, slight, sprite

I eat my peas,

My eggs and cheese,

My pasta à la Genovese

Well pleased as punch,

Needing no med. rare for lunch.

But then those times…

Oy, oy those times!


Soul feeling maimed,

Smell of sweet, soy, garlic-y meat

I fall

To ribs [deceitful] call.

Hypocrisy Confessed 4.25.2017

A Sense Of Ridiculous II;

Arlene Corwin


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