Of Cracker Barrel and Life

Just an answer to a question from long ago

Note: This poem is based on an anectdote I once heard that all the antiques at the southern chain resturant Cracker Barrel are genuine.

I heard they're real
It makes sense
There's alot of stuff in the world

One day we'll come back
And on the wall
Will be one of those AOL disks from the mail

Don't laugh
We use alot just to live
That spoon? It was a man's
A king or pauper?
It matters not, however ornate
A spoon is (except when its not)

You use much on your way out
Which raises a question
Were you only what you had?
Or
Did you only have what you were?

I went to an auction once
It seemed the end
All that he was dispersed to others
To be sold at their sale
So he ceased to be, here at least

And yet the family
Told stories of him
So maybe he was more, and still there
But
They wanted his books
And him

So who knows what we are?
Whatever the case
Its certainly finite
I heard the chicken's good
Try it with cornbread