Heir soup By aldo kraas, www.PoetryPoem.com/poet11586 Unlock all Features - Upgrade to Poetry Prime
wrinkling widow Awestruck Horsetruck works inside
the basement kitchen of a master wedded to social preserve.
to he she's just a witch of luncheon, steeped fruit,
high tea and heartburn with a notch between her legs; wherein
he may while away a wintering world in whimpered ennui.
in addition to the pittance won in work, he gave
her something she could wash from off her thighs
nightly, or whenever his landed wide load of a wife
took off to take the wakeful western air,
wishing for divine pre-pollination of her withered wasteland womb.
one typical spring the master gave Awestruck a
gift she wouldn't lightly wash away, not
least until she had her design.
and it grew well within her where she nested
by the fire and hatched a wicked wicker spell.
for if a witch he suspected of her,
in jest but perhaps not justly,
Widow Awestruck was indeed a foul, if winsome harridan.
her body warped and stretched but she welcomed
the intrusion, for the seed ballooning beneath her
tearing skin would be the tooling of her vengeance
and the undoing of her lorded menace.
so by the time the first snows drifted
Widow Awestruck birthed a benign babe
whose coming passed in silence,
from bloody cradle, straight to grave.
on christmas day her lord and master called
upon her title, demanding and a great feast was the billing
for a wide and welcomed cast of familiars
who the lord master would roast
and boast in the wellness of estate.
the first course found them in fine spirit,
good christian neighbourly cheer,
and they chattered compliments
to a chef they cared not for
but only asked after the name, the recipe
'an exotic and most soul soothing warmer', the
lord and master swelled, 'which my fine cook
tells me discreetly, she calls "Heir Soup"'
'eat well, my friends, of the fruits of my labour
and we'll toast this good day
and pass the scraps to the dogs'.
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