World’s Worst Poem, Plated

Perdonnez, signora, will you taste my
veritable vermicelli which lost a

Tagliatelle or gnocchi -or was
it tortellini or gemelli?- that cost a

Few dozzina homemade noodles: measured,
mixed, rolled, chopped, shaped, and boiled -hasta

Domani, questa mattina -when nappy
And wriggly rigatoni-head rastas

Dangle candid cannelloni for
colazione (o pranzo o cena o altro) sauced, a

Banchetto of bavett, bucatini,
bigoli, e barbina; which fosta

Amore, our home country joy; precious
mem’ries of mamma o zia o ci, who bossed a

Flourishing, famishing family,
practically-plated with a plethora of pasta.

If that doesn’t bake your noodle, you’ve lost-a.

sarah-boyle-90071-unsplash

Carrot Ranch Literary Society Prompt

16 thoughts on “World’s Worst Poem, Plated

  1. good grief I’m dizzy trying to read that out loud – did you take something herby with your penne over your way, because I want whatever you’re having. You are bonkers, you know that? And I definitely think you need to sprinkle your frontal cortex with Parmesan…

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Pingback: Dishing Up Pasta « Carrot Ranch Literary Community

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