Help Me, Help Me, I’ve Eaten, and I’m Not Fed Up
Virginia Salter

I’ve had a sandwich a luscious one
on fresh wheat bread not old stale bun
Twas made of ‘mato, crisp lettuce, turkey
but I tell you friend I’m none too perky
I feel more like one named Hanna
upon her forty-first day of manna.

Why, you may ask, do I carry on,
it’s what is wafting o’er my lawn.
I’m out here mowing for all I’m worth
while other’s out do flaunt their mirth.

You see it’s graduation day in our fair town
it’s planned that way and every yard within a mile
seems to be feasting Texas style.

With bar-b-chicken on the grill
so wondrous smelling I’m feeling ill.
It’s seems as if I’ve not been fed
since some time before I grew my head.

I really hate to be this way so narcissistic in what I say
but couldn’t they just cook inside so mowing lawn, I could abide.
After all the sky is gray
the wind does blow the smells my way;
there’s surely not much left to eat since those lovely ‘romas lie at my feet.

The smell’s so strong you’d think that I
would feel real full, to satisfy,
but then alas, alack, my friend, I’m so hungry
I have the bends.

Just a mile more, of back and forths,
will end the slaving in the north
the lawn all mowed, I’ll hide within
the walls so built to shelter in.

Perhaps in just a little time
bar-b’s will close and end this rhyme.
At least there’s hope, if you pray right now,
that they won’t start to roast a cow.

© June 2, 2001