The Loch Ness monster’s in my soup,
how shall we ever find him?
Beneath the waves of ‘O’s’ and ‘A’s,’
in pools afloat with ‘J’s’ and ‘K’s,’
the fiendish creature hides and plays.
My spoon has scraped his boney back,
I’ve tried to lure him with a snack
but every time I draw him near,
he sniffs, he snorts, he cocks his ear,
and sinks below to disappear.
His entertainments are but few
in soup there’s hardly much to do.
he sleeps a lot, bored to the bone.
He makes no calls, he has no phone,
he plays no king upon a throne.
He reads James Jones and Pasternak,
Walt Whitman, Joyce, and some Balzac.
His favorite food’s a rich cuisine
of cast-off tires and gasoline
which makes his skin soft velveteen.
I eat my dangerous murky broth
not spilling on the table cloth,
in hopes that when the bowl is drained
he’ll quit, desist, he’ll be detained,
the police will come and he’ll be tamed.
(1975)