Lampredotto

Here is the most well known poem that I have yet written (i.e., known by one other person). It’s about the traditional Tuscan offal delicacy known as lampredotto. I’ve put it up and taken it down a few times online. I still think it’s quite funny.

My love and I in Florence met
One bright November afternoon.
Neither of us had lunched as yet –
We were wanting fed and soon.
My angel, well, her heart was set
Upon a certain peasant dish
Of bovine innards –’twas her wish!

She wanted tripe, and so did I

So off we went to where we knew
They did it well, at least to my
Past recollection – and hers too.
Since I was sure the place was nigh
To Dante’s house, that’s where I led
Us as on eager feet we sped.

We found it without too much trouble.
By then the both of us were famished:
We needed food and on the double.
Sadly for us the tripe was finished
And on this news we hit a stumble.
But everything was far from lost
For tripe alone does not exhaust

What can be done with bovine offal
And so we chose another dish
The name of which was Lampredotto.
They say it’s like a Lamprey fish
Somehow to me, it looked more scrotal.
In fact it was just cooked cows stomach.
We both were pleased with this new found good luck.

The lampredotto was delicious
We had it in a plastic tray
It was fast food not meant for dishes
We ate it the traditional way.
The meal had answered to our wishes.
We wolfed it down all with some coke,
So hungry that we hardly spoke.

And afterwards we were both sated
And all was right then with the world
Our hunger having been abated
The afternoon to come unfurled
Itself and left us both elated
And feeling very glad we came.
The trip had served its happy aim.

We took an evening train back home –
My sweetheart lives and works in Pisa –
And journeyed back out through the gloam
Arriving feeling rather pleased, a
Smile quite as sweet as honeycomb
Played on her face I held her tight
And everything just seemed so right

Our lips were locked in sweet embrace
When I began to notice that
Her breath had kept more than a trace
Of all that we had eaten at
least four hours back, in that place
That tripe sellers in Florence. Strangely
Her meaty breath did not estrange me.

In fact I felt myself more drawn
Towards her as I smelt her breath
It’s true – I really felt turned on
And rather than it dying a death
My passion grew: I was far gone.
But then I made a dreadful error
I thought, about her breath, I’d tell her

She for her part was not best pleased
And didn’t find it too erotic
And thinking she was being teased
Became a little bit neurotic
While I was still by passion seized,
The moral is: watch what you say,
For others might not see it your way.

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