by Gideon Burton
Third cousin to a pig and twice removed,
It oozes, goopy, from its squarish tin;
Thick film conceals the lard with which its grooved,
Intestines pureed mottle its pink skin.
Would ancient man have glorified the spam,
In pictographs preserved its conquest sure?
Or would they shrug at its smooth texture, bland–
No boxy graphic to make spam endure?
In industry the spam is thrift itself:
No bones or organs spill aside as scrap.
Once salted, lives for decades on a shelf;
Discerning palates know its kind from crap.
Maligned, despised, yet all the while consumed
If spam’s eternal, earth itself is doomed.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - AJC1