Salad, But True

Deep in the night, my tongue took flight,
Straight to my wisened old tooth’s bed. 
Tracing the tooth's bite with circular might,
Where gum and tooth are wed. 

A sharpness was there, tongue beware,
The tooth was a sharp as chipped granite. 
Try as my tongue might--not tonight,
I couldn't dislodge that damn sleep bandit. 

I worried that wart, until my tongue gave out. 
And succumbed to the sleep of the damned. 
Working and dreaming, planning and scheming,
On how to get the damn thing wiggled out. 

To my dismay, my tongue kept wandering that way,
And wore itself bloody to tip—not hip.
Round and round in my head, by tongue I’d be bled,
In the morning, drip, drip, I'd be dead. 

Sleep found its way and saved the night that day,
I passed out from my own frenzied dread. 
Near morning it popped up like a pimple.
A popcorn hull dimple, the size of a loaf of bread.

Bet you thought it was a crouton, instead?

Copyright 2003 © Ronald W. Hull


Chicken Ceasar Salad at Stanford Alumni Center Restuarant


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Copyright 2003 © Ronald W. Hull