A piece of bacon took a pen
To write a little poem
About the way it feels to be
Accepted, loved, at home.
At first he wrote: “I am at home
When I am on a pig.
Within its belly, near the mud
It’s quite a pleasant gig.”
The bacon paused, then crossed this out
It sounded like a lie
To act as if he felt at home
Inside a dirty sty.
And so he wrote: “There is one place
That makes me feel fantastic
It’s when I’m in a person’s fridge
Tucked into shrink-wrapped plastic.”
The bacon paused, then crossed this out
And said, “That just won’t do.
For though it rhymes quite nicely
I don’t think it’s strictly true.”
And so he wrote: “I am at home
When I am in a pan.
Sizzling hot and spitting fat
I feel like I’m the man.”
The bacon paused, then crossed this out
It didn’t sound correct.
“Who knew,” he thought, “that poems
Would be so tiresome to perfect?”
And so he wrote: “I am at home
When I am on a tongue.
Within a human mouth, I feel
Invigorated, young!
For though I die as I am chewed
I know, deep down, I should
Because I sacrifice myself
To reach a greater good.
Indeed, I am a martyr
And when eaten, I dispel
All worry, fear and tragedy
All agony and hell.
I give, for just a moment,
The experience of bliss
I am the springtime robin’s song,
The long-lost lover’s kiss.
And to those who condemn me
And declare I’m not nutritious
I say, “What’s home? More vitamins?
Nay. Home is what’s delicious.”
The bacon dropped his pen; he smiled
And said, “Now that’s a poem!”
And moments later, he was cooked
And gently taken home.This poem won this: http://baconfestchicago.com/2014baconpoem
