Chèrie Poutine, mon amour

Ah, poutine! J’aime toujours
No loon, nor John A. can deflect thy price
Thine image captures such allure
With our Queen in hand, I’d pay it twice

Those golden drippings in which you cleanse
The sight, my heart, it beats in toil
Basket shaken dry dilates mine lens
No further, my tongue I must now spoil

Be it russet, Yukon gold or glorious red
Where polystyrene becomes your gird
And slices form your matchstick bed
That the hair-netted faithful anoint by curd

Your calories I ne’er dare to count
Your gravy, ladle me mine unholy amount

2 Comment

  1. BK says:

    What inspired this gastro-poetic burst?

    It’s B.A. Johnston meets Macbeth.

  2. Thank you!

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