Le Chef
¶ 1
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The Gallic chef surveyed the fish,
Their bodies cold and lifeless.
But how could he prepare the dish?
His friends had left him knifeless.
¶ 2
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He rattled through each kitchen drawer
With calm consideration,
Searching for a sharp knife for
His masterful creation.
¶ 3
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Then, just as things were looking grim.
He found a knife that suited.
He held it up in front of him,
The satisfaction muted.
¶ 4
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He gazed upon the slender steel,
The sharp blade gleaming brightly.
He turned it once to gauge its feel,
Then grasped the handle tightly.
¶ 5
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And at a steady, measured pace,
With neither fuss nor messing,
A smile spread o’er his placid face,
As he applied French dressing.
¶ 6
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The blade with smooth precision sliced
Through scaly fish with ease,
Till, giving thanks to Jesus Christ,
He sank down on his knees.
¶ 7
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The innards all lay in a pile,
The table marked and rutted.
The master chef evinced a smile,
The English cod were gutted.
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