Quote:
Originally Posted by Arckon
How dare you say that, pizzia isn't pretty good, pizzia rocks, darg poem about pizzia and you get a slice
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Dedicating poetry to a food?
First just let me get in the mood,
And let's see what I can concoct,
What words to say, what things to be mocked,
But hear this if nothing else,
Truly the end of sanity this spells...
Long ago on an Italian street,
Arckon the wanderer, a dilemma did meet,
He stopped and pondered for what to devour,
Having for lunch only one hour,
For to ye olde Subway he did say,
Without a doubt or hesitation nay,
And to the bagel shop he turned it down,
As well as the rest of the fickle shops in town,
Arckon our man was indeed choosy,
His mind a mess, a muddled doozy,
But in his haze he found the light,
An inspiration, a flash of white,
For he stood between two stores,
The baker's abode and where out cheese pours,
He ordered himself from the baker's stall,
Enough dough to fill up a cathedral hall,
And from the font of cheese he did take,
Enough of it to fill a lake,
And with experimental curiousity,
He threw them together with animosity,
And sliced it forty-eight times across,
And picked a shape, no lack no loss,
The shape of an arrow, that of his compass,
A perfect form, no wreck, no mess,
And sent it back to the baker's abode,
To on his skillet, the cheese and dough to load,
And last but not least,
He applied the yeast,
Before he did dash,
To get some sauce in a flash,
And spread it out with haste,
Though without a common taste,
And so it was baked that day,
Without delay,
And to his surprise,
Without ruse or disguise,
It was a fabulous new delicacy,
The greatest that any had ever seen,
And in his stead, many came,
To claim the food and bask in his fame,
For Arckon, though indeed he did not know it,
Was the creator of pizza as well as a poet.
