Dinner Plates

Once a group of friends in chatter
bickered intently on Main Street.
Yet it was a friendly matter
concerning where they all could eat,
as restaurants diverse extant
dripped much like liquid from loose lips,
(one anxious friend in breathless pant
  stood sour-puss with hands on hips
  as he made case for Chinese food
  wherein another rotund face--
  a salivating, raucous dude--
  claimed Olive Garden was the place
  because of breadsticks, salad too.)
Meanwhile, lady in high voice,
her mind on homemade stew,
proclaimed Bob Evans her first choice.

Of course, a steakhouse was proposed
(Longhorn appropriate in name),
at which Sir Sour thumbed his nose;
he thought a cut of sirloin lame.
Loud Rotund Face in cheeky drool
(no appetite for egg foo young),
became a sophomoric fool
by sticking out an unctuous tongue.
But then one level-headed chap
(his moniker was Mr. Spode),
resolved the issue in a snap--
the friends all dined at his abode.


28 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
11-4-14