Delicacies

99 delicacies, pissed off delicacies,
not delicate, but delinquent, I think.
When I pick up my fork (left hand)
and my knife (right hand)
and go for the Cornish game hen
(seasoned with excellence by my chef, George)
it snaps back at me.
"Too long," it says,
and so I throw it out.
I then begin to cut into my
gold-leaf-wrapped-filet-mignon,
and feel my knife (right hand)
slide through the"Hey!
We're fed up!" The hen again.
"You're fed up, well let me feed myself."
"You mean feast yourself. Everyday
a feast, I guess it's
a man-eat-man, man-eat-food world."
"Cool it, game hen, or
I'll send you back to George."
"Give me my money."

I stand up,
all alone
in the dining room
and stomp on
that stupid piece of meat
and its juices
splatter all over the room.