Ode to Spam

                                      by Charlie Johnston



                              Oh SPAM!  Oh SPAM!  Gourmet delight!
                               My food by day, my dreams by night.
                              To carve, to slice, to dice you up -
                           pureed in a blender and sipped from a cup.

                              What shining deity from Olympus knelt
                              down to the earth and hog butt smelt?
                               Creating then man's eternal desire
                              for swine entrails congealed by fire.

                             On some corporate farm, a pig has died.
                              Eyes, tongue, and snout end up inside
                               that cube of SPAM hidden in the can
                                I now hold in my trembling hand.

                               More than mere food, SPAM is for me
                           a hedonistic expression of gluttonous glee.
                         Mottled with pork fat, the pink cube engrosses.
                          My mouth takes it in, my intestine disposes.

                           Long have my arteries clogged to the sound
                          of sizzling SPAM when there's no one around -
                             furtively chewing or swallowing whole.
                            Triple bypass by forty, my medical goal.

                      Other processed meat products I've tried or declined
                        Vienna Sausages, Treet, even pig's feet in brine.
                           Though each may be tasty in different ways,
                             none matches SPAM for gelatinous glaze.

                               That glistening pinkness beckons me
                                   with gristle, fat, and BHT.
                            Oh Spam, my Spam - the taste, the smell -
                              The sacred meat product from Hormel.

There was a young man named O'Rourke,
Heard babies were brought by the stork,
    So he went to the zoo
    And attempted to screw
One old bird -- end-result: didn't work.

A nymphomaniacal nurse 
            With a curse that was worse than perverse 
                Stuck a rotary drill 
                Up her twat, for a thrill--- 
            And they carted her off in a hearse. 

A wonderful fish is the flea, 
            He bores and he bites on me. 
                I would love, indeed, 
                To watch him feed, 
            But he bites me where I cannot see. 

               A geologist named Dr. Robb 
               Was perturbed by his thingamabob, 
                    So he took up his pick 
                    And whanged off his wick, 
               And calmly went on with his job.