Somtimes inspiration can be found at the bottom of a bottle...of pepper nonetheless. This is one of two sonnets I felt made my weekend magical, let me know what you think.
Pepper
A small little thing that tickles the nose
Feels nothing compared to this thunder.
Clap. It is not that feather, nor the hinder
But the deadly snap of the falsehood rose
Prettying the plates, and garnishing those
Tight lipped salads who give nothing colder
Than a dry hello or the time. Pepper
Is not like the ice he waits, moves closer
And strikes that poor waiter right in the nose
Such a start that hot little man can make
In said nose. When does he stop? No one knows
But the waiter, who handles him can fake
No sign, but inside screaming, only prose
Helps the waiter survive pepper the snake.
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