alton brown is my master
Once upon a mid-morn dreary, as I pondered with eyes quite bleary,
Over many a curious volume of culinary lore,
On a latte I was sucking, and yet suddenly there came a clucking,
As if some salesman were a-mucking, mucking about my kitchen door.
Alton Brown: 'Tis some salesman. Only this, nothing more.
And yet presently the noise repeated. So I hollered, no longer seated.
AB: Beat it, pesky husker, mucking about my kitchen door.
At my business I'm now working, so my chain you'd best stop jerking.
Then throwing wide the kitchen door, I found there a chicken and nothing more.
AB: Eeeh.
Leapt a back I then with a stutter, as the phantom bird did with a
flutter
Mount the folk-art bust of Julia Child there upon my kitchen floor.
Perched and sat and nothing more.
Then the palled poultry most perplexing did set my meager mind to guessing ...
AB: From whence did you come to perch upon the bust of Julia on my kitchen
floor?
Quoth the chicken,
CHICKEN: Fry some more.
As certain as my heart is ticking, I'm certain no living chicken
Has ever so clearly commanded a living cook before
With an utterance so clear and shocking that even I could not ignore.
Quoth the chicken,
C: Fry some more.
Then thought I, perhaps she's on to something.
For too long now I have been supping
On feed incapable of nourishing my anguished soul.
Perhaps some truly good eats my hungry soul could restore.
Quoth the chicken,
C: Fry some more.
AB: Good eats, that is.
[Extra]
C: Fry some more.
AB: Hush, foul fowl.
Speaking of chickens ...
The chicken, never flitting still is sitting, still is sitting
On the folk-art bust of Julia on my kitchen floor.
In her thighs I see the quiver of a future pan- fried dinner
Whose crunchy, golden goodness does my appetite implore
To go ahead and fry some more.
Over many a curious volume of culinary lore,
On a latte I was sucking, and yet suddenly there came a clucking,
As if some salesman were a-mucking, mucking about my kitchen door.
Alton Brown: 'Tis some salesman. Only this, nothing more.
And yet presently the noise repeated. So I hollered, no longer seated.
AB: Beat it, pesky husker, mucking about my kitchen door.
At my business I'm now working, so my chain you'd best stop jerking.
Then throwing wide the kitchen door, I found there a chicken and nothing more.
AB: Eeeh.
Leapt a back I then with a stutter, as the phantom bird did with a
flutter
Mount the folk-art bust of Julia Child there upon my kitchen floor.
Perched and sat and nothing more.
Then the palled poultry most perplexing did set my meager mind to guessing ...
AB: From whence did you come to perch upon the bust of Julia on my kitchen
floor?
Quoth the chicken,
CHICKEN: Fry some more.
As certain as my heart is ticking, I'm certain no living chicken
Has ever so clearly commanded a living cook before
With an utterance so clear and shocking that even I could not ignore.
Quoth the chicken,
C: Fry some more.
Then thought I, perhaps she's on to something.
For too long now I have been supping
On feed incapable of nourishing my anguished soul.
Perhaps some truly good eats my hungry soul could restore.
Quoth the chicken,
C: Fry some more.
AB: Good eats, that is.
[Extra]
C: Fry some more.
AB: Hush, foul fowl.
Speaking of chickens ...
The chicken, never flitting still is sitting, still is sitting
On the folk-art bust of Julia on my kitchen floor.
In her thighs I see the quiver of a future pan- fried dinner
Whose crunchy, golden goodness does my appetite implore
To go ahead and fry some more.