At the Beetle Supper

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Philip Kane 

 

At the Beetle Supper

My ankles itch.
Crack! The black shells
pop like champagne corks
at every table.

Feeling sick, I look
for cover. There’s none.
Something shattered flops
with six legs waving.

I ask for an alternative.
The waiter tells me, “No,
the country’s free but
this is all you get”.

“Don’t argue”, says my neighbour,
“These beetles are the best
kind, they’re succulent
and fairly sweet”.

She smiles and spits out bits.
Her teeth are turning black.
The beetles, on their backs,
are laid in rows,

impaled on cocktail sticks.
There’s no escape.
“Here, try”…”Another?”
This supper lasts forever.

My ankles itch.
Crack! The black shells
pop like champagne corks
at every table.

Feeling sick, I look
for cover. There’s none.
Something shattered flops
with six legs waving.

I ask for an alternative.
The waiter tells me, “No,
the country’s free but
this is all you get”.

“Don’t argue”, says my neighbour,
“These beetles are the best
kind, they’re succulent
and fairly sweet”.

She smiles and spits out bits.
Her teeth are turning black.
The beetles, on their backs,
are laid in rows,

impaled on cocktail sticks.
There’s no escape.
“Here, try”…”Another?”
This supper lasts forever.

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