The Epic of the Olive
By Gene Aronowitz
When I arrived, I noticed sitting there
a most refined, well-formed, and proper chair.
As I prepared to have my evening meal,
that seat became the one with most appeal.
But I beheld a sight that made me moan.
A brute of twice my size sat on the throne.
“Beware,” I said, unostentatiously,
so soft, in fact, that no one heard but me.
Quite unassuming, I approached the lout,
a valiant introduction to the bout.
My arm swung out as if to strike him dead,
but then I paused and scratched my ear instead.
To not provoke a bloke with so much might.
I crouched beside the table out of sight.
A tray of pale green olives caught my eye.
I picked one up and quickly let it fly.
It hit its mark, but not one person knew
from whose deft hand that juicy pellet flew.
The oaf surveyed the hall, expressed a sigh,
and then the next projectile found his eye.
A fit of anger caused the pug to bark.
Another zestful sphere then hit the mark.
He rose and turned and bellowed as a boar
and sought to find who started such a war.
He quit the seat where he had tried to dine,
and then, without a blink, the throne was mine.
