Keep your eyes on the specials, our waitress warned
reducing us to watercress, leaving us wet and wilted
eager to commiserate with culverts in one-horse towns up-river,
Guernseys supplanting gumshoes deployed to quell the babblers
who had thrown caution to the wind,
threatening to bury the village in an avalanche of aphorisms.
The close call mid-flight left everyone tight-lipped,
even the reformed ventriloquist whose lines atrophied.
Perhaps it's time to re-examine the scaffolding for loopholes?
Didn't the Times report a shortage of Hollandaise sauce
in its profile of that fortune-teller-cum-salad-chef
blurbing her unwritten memoir with balsamic insouciance?
The old nag gave up the ghost in the final furlong,
said Susan, that tiny twit, in the next-to-the-last-episode
which landed at her feet in a snowstorm
prompting her to spill her guts
to a rather plain-looking counterman dressed to the nines in plaid.
They reportedly retired to Sin City.
