BEASTLY TALES

IN THE SOUP

Pierre, their waiter came to the table,
Gregory Glob was dining with his wife, Mable.
“And pour Monsieur?” He respectfully asked.
“Chowda!” said Glob, not multi-tasked.
“Ah, Chowdaaaire!” Pierre reiterated.
His pronunciation made Glob most irritated.
“No, Chowda!” Glob sternly said, a point pursuer.
Pierre, with nasal intonation, “Chowaire pour monsieur.”

Gregory Glob said “Chowdaire, that’s not how you pronounce chowder.”
He repeatedly stated this, each time a bit louder!
Pierre flashed his eyes, and twirled his moustache.
“Chowdaire, Chowdaire, Chowdaire,” said he, in a manner most brash.
“No, it’s Chowda, Chowda, Chowda!” Glob retorted with glee,
The matter was getting out of hand, exponentially!
At last Glob could take it no more!
He tackled Pierre down to the floor!
“Chowdaire, Chowdaire,” whimpered Pierre, in fright.
It had been a most extraordinary night.
They pulled their hair, and punched their noses.
Injuries flashing red like prize-winning roses.

If only Pierre had not spoke his “woids,”
As if he suffered from adenoids,
Adenoidal speech was at the root of the problem.
Without such a factor, peace wouldn’t rob them.
So, considering all this, it would be scarier.
To be severely kicked, hard, up the derriere!