Carrots in the Typewriter

I spread carrots in the typewriter,

Hear them crunch and grind.

Grease is my fave salad dressing,

A good lubricant for the mind.

A tangerine is my baseball

Let me come and swing for fences

With bats made of pasta clumps,

Tortellini’s quite the densest.

Zucchini is a blessing too

When lining the swimming pool,

Tastes of the world are my dentures.

Ice cream paper makes me drool.

My pencils, made of protein dust,

Dictate a fugue of pleasure.

Bring out the gallon jugs of spice

To pour out the perfect measure.

A glass of wine to top things off

Gets spilled upside my head

Where shampoo’s gentle touch

Shall eliminate the dead.

I paste Cheez-its to a computer screen,

The orange and green, they clash.

As if the joy came easily

In the form of meathead cash.

Asian oils, Russian flour

Czechoslovakian mixture

The camel’s milk and robin’s egg

Paint a distinctly African picture.

I stretch sausages to utter lengths

Of written power unseen,

The pen glides through scrolls of mince,

And pierces jelly beans.

Thoughts are gray and so are brains,

I don’t suggest you eat them.

But when I spin my linguistic quilt

I’ll always chew a neat hem.

There’s not a thing to be afraid of.

Go, and chomp anew.

I spread carrots in my typewriter,

And suggest that you do too.