LIVER FOR DINNER

LIVER AT NINE

last nights dinner special
carved from pine by Robert Margetts

A clank of the dinner bell sealed my fate—

Evil Stepmother stomped in

and slammed a slab of liver on my plate.

Fried five hours past its prime,

in the pan at four o’clock and fossilized by nine.

 

I stared in horror, in disgust, in pure disdain;

this glob of glitch belonged near a sewer drain.

No, not the drain—

oh heavens, no!

It would clog the pipes

faster than crazy glue

mixed with Elmer’s and Play‑Doh.

 

Then—I swear on my sneakers—

I began to believe

this burnt slab of snot actually laughed at me.

It twitched, it wiggled, it hummed a wicked tune,

then dove for cover beneath my salad

like a liver‑shaped baboon.

I gasped, I choked,

I nearly fainted in my chair,

but what happened next?

Nothing could compare.

The beans and the beets,

without warning or cue,

leap‑frogged the asparagus

and cannonballed into the chicken stew.

 

My plate became a circus,

a riot, a zoo—

vegetables stampeding like they had nothing to lose.

So with no remorse and absolutely no debate,

I opened my napkin and shoveled off my plate.

 

But alas—

my luck ran out with a thunderous snort.

Evil Stepmother glared at me

 like a dragon in court.

“I see you crave liver, as do I,”

she purred with a lie.

“And for dessert, I cooked your favorite… Brussels Sprout Pie!”

I screamed. I wailed. I nearly passed out.

But she just smiled sweetly and said,

“Open wide, my young sprout!”

ROBERT MARGETTS