Cultural Divides
I watched a ritual of the Baluchistanis;
Strange glottal cries and shuffling dance
With tasselled toes and feathered fannies
(Now all the rage in France)
I could not hide my awe and admiration
I whooped as each flame licked me on the spit
This livened up the congregation
(You see, they too were 'lit')
I looked to see the High Priestess approaching
Nearly naked save for jewels and plumes.
I knew I needed special coaching
(I'm new at making fumes)
"Turn the spit!" I cried. "My backside's overdone!"
The priestess frowned and brushed my chest with honey.
I knew that spit must soon be spun
(Or I'd be upside sunny)
I wondered if the world would know my fate
Or would my gnaw-scarred bones alone attest
And pond'ring that, heard "Grab a plate!"
(Was this a tasteless jest?)
Contributors: | Will H, Beefy, F, Kansas Sam, Helen Owly. |
Poem finished: | 31st March 2005 by will h. |