I have always been fascinated by the epic. Even though I’m not a massive fan of poetry, there is something special about their grandiose nature, and I thought I’d have a go at writing one in miniature form about a mundane midnight snack. It was submitted as part of an assessment for a subject on experimental writing, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
The Epic of a Modern Man
Behold the man hunched over there,
A Thinker poised with fist on chin,
And spinning in his swivel chair,
He’s working out which words fit in,
Through dim lamp light and squinted eyes,
He holds the page close to his nose,
But seemingly despite his tries,
He cannot formulate the prose,
Though not a master of the craft,
In his mind he’s looking forward,
To being done with this rough draft,
It’s something he can work toward,
But later thoughts start to intrude,
The need for sleep, for air, for food.
“How rude,” he cries to empty room,
“To cut the writing as it flows!”
In ever reaching creeping gloom,
The gnawing in his belly grows,
It growls at him, a muted roar,
Imploring to be fed again,
Forget the dinner had before,
His gut cares not about his Zen,
And pokes him prods him to invest,
The smallest fraction of his time,
On something tasty to digest,
A midnight snack to reach his prime,
So up he gets upon a quest,
To put the hungry beast to rest.
He flees the room and down the stairs,
Stumbling clumsily in his haste,
Over haphazardly placed chairs,
The right words are now his to waste,
Revenge he swears most colourful,
On the innocent furniture,
His countenance most baleful,
And verbiage rated mature,
Yet only person he should curse,
For blundering about at night,
Is him because it could be worse,
They could have done it out of spite,
And beaten him about the head,
But only grazed his shins instead.
A muttering and mumbling,
He’s now made it to the kitchen,
But he’s lost and blindly groping,
At the wall the switch is hid in,
He flicks it on and there was light,
Brightly stabbing at tender eyes,
And thinking it was good and right,
It was now time to claim his prize,
A delicacy to appease,
He must be absolutely sure,
A toasted sandwich ham and cheese,
In French known as a Croque Monsieur,
For his hunger it would suppress,
Out came the Breville sandwich press.
He quickly moves to raid the fridge,
Rummaging roughly through the shelves,
Of margarine he’ll need a smidge,
And the cheese slices come in twelves,
The packet ham will do just fine,
And of bread he has a half loaf,
He dreams of toasties most sublime,
“What do you think you’re doing oaf?”
He smacks his head at sudden voice,
That sneaked up on him unannounced,
He rounds and says, “It is my choice,
To eat cheese toasties undenounced!”
An angel leaned with arms folded,
“Do not scowl at me” she scolded.
It took all of his patience then,
Not to tell her where she could go,
Instead he asked about her ken,
“Why are cheese toasties a no-no?”
“Tis ‘cause they’re sinful” she replied,
As if that explained everything,
The blank look he returned implied,
He knew almost next to nothing,
About divine eating of chow,
He had not drawn a conclusion,
But if he had to draw one now,
It would only cause confusion,
Besides his head felt gingerly,
Adding insult to injury.
Despite the throbbing in his head,
And the bruise growing on his leg,
He starts to butter up the bread,
“Forgive me, your pardon I beg,
Seems I have forgot my manners.”
Now he fires up the kettle,
Unplanned visit throwing spanners,
Some tea to make his nerves settle,
An offering to please his guest,
And soothe down those ruffled feathers,
“I’ll have one too”, came a request,
Dressed in motorcycle leathers,
It was a devil standing proud,
His kitchen turned into a crowd.
The devil to the angel turned,
And some smoke blew from his nostrils,
“Don’t worry, no one’s getting burned,
Cheese toasties aren’t in the gospels”
The man felt some relief at that,
And resumed his late-night cooking,
The angel and the demon sat,
Daggers at each other looking,
Across the round dinner table,
Started up a hot discussion,
“Keep it civil if you’re able.”
Said man through mild concussion,
They both agreed to make labours,
Trying not to disturb neighbours.
Satisfied he’d laid some ground rules,
He returned to thoughts of supper,
And bubbling water molecules,
With leaves ready for a cuppa,
He put the sandwich on the press,
With the butter on the outside,
Which seems a move in 4D chess,
But simply makes the sandwich fried,
It was a secret recipe,
He picked up from his mother,
A product of necessity,
When he moved out with his other,
The angel then interjected,
“Eve and Adam were ejected!”
Said the angel most vehement,
“They ate of the forbidden tree,
Thus earning rightful punishment,
For breaching my Lord God’s decree,
They learned of what it meant to sin,
Cast from the Garden of Eden,
And doomed to wander not therein,
My point here Archimedean:
Is toasties as a form of feed,
An example most fantastic,
Do constitute a grave misdeed,
Worthy of attention drastic:
A trip to Hell and agony,
Awaits the sin of gluttony.”
The devil paused and stroked his chin,
At the angel’s assertation,
“Just eating food can’t be a sin,
For the priests all hold oblation.”
“Those portions are all sample size,”
Swiftly came the angel’s retort,
“Now every meal comes with large fries,
And the children do not play sport!”
The man was inclined to agree,
But wisely kept that to himself,
It was now time to serve the tea,
Like he was some kind of house elf,
Boiling water in the teapot,
Occupied the primary spot.
The angel and the demon stopped,
Their conversation put on hold,
They watched on as their cups were topped,
With hot black tea and milk ice cold,
“The toasties will be coming soon.”
To her drink she added sugar,
Stirred vigorously with a spoon,
While the demon picked a booger,
And wiped his finger on his sleeve,
The angel noticed but said naught,
Although it was a huge pet peeve,
Bigger battles still to be fought,
Taking up all her attention,
Made it easy not to mention.
The argument resumed with vim,
Discarding temporary truce,
The man felt coming portents grim,
As beings bickered points obtuse,
He buries himself in his task,
By moving toasties to a plate,
And wonders even should he ask,
If they would like to masticate,
On the fruits of midnight labours,
He thought about just being rude,
And indulging in the flavours,
While they settled their nonsense feud,
Demon spoke: “Am I demented,
Or is something toasty scented?”
The man sets plate in front of them,
And sits down in a nearby seat,
The angel tweaks her diadem,
And steadfast she refused to eat,
The demon suffered no such qualm,
And immediately dug in,
Juggling a toasty in his palm,
Molten cheese dripping from his chin,
The man waited for his to cool,
And drank instead a sip of tea,
Allowing thoughts to overrule,
The din of present company,
An answer he would like to seek,
He wonders if cheese toasties speak?
If he could hear one talking now,
What on Earth could it have to say,
And would it be low or highbrow?
Of finding out he has no way,
The toasty on the other hand,
Was thinking things quite different:
It had just come to understand,
And became quite vociferant,
About the fate it had in store,
It certainly wanted no part.
Its head the man unhindered tore,
Cheesy blood flowing from its heart,
Put paid to any gibbering,
About the toasty’s suffering.
And of course, the man heard nothing,
Stuffing the toasty in his gob,
Said the angel, “You’re disgusting,”
And the devil said, “You’re a snob,”
“Am not!” “Are too!” went back and forth,
As the beings escalated,
And drove the man’s impatience north,
The barbs became more serrated,
To and fro they traded insults,
But the noise the pair were making,
He wished they would act like adults,
And just discard the muckraking,
He cleared his throat for a rebuff,
“I think I’ve bloody heard enough!”
The other two looked at him shocked,
As his temper boiled over,
“You’ve drank the tea which I’ve decoct,
And ate food I’ve cooked moreover,
But you remind me of a song,
About a pot and a kettle,
Who sit and quarrel all day long,
I’ve had too much of your nettle!”
The both sat there with mouths agape,
And shame washed over their features,
“Continue to act like an ape,
And I will treat you like creatures,
I won’t let your sodality
Abuse my hospitality!”
They both raised hands then to placate,
And stave off the poor man’s anger,
“It might be best if we vacate,
Somewhere else we’ll take our clangour.”
Said demon, “That’s a great idea,
We’re really very sorry man,
And quarrelling with angel here,
For sure was not my game plan.”
They made then their apologies,
Draining teacups on the double,
Returned to their authorities,
Leaving man to his own trouble,
Bemoaning his unfilled wishes,
“Could have stayed to do the dishes.”