Fritters Frida (and Mr. Bush later on)

If I could be anywhere with Fritters Frida,
I’d choose to be at the tower of Pisa
Leaning over to the left a little
Eating my deep fried jibble…

She would take me to the moon
In the grease pies she’d spoon
One by one, each greasy morsel
Down my gullet, and down my torso…

She’s a nice appearing lady
She looks not a little crazy
But she’s rather strange
When you get in the range
Of a mountain of deep-fried pastry!

Oh, what a commotion we’ve caused with our goo
The goo that came from our delickable food!
Fried up little fritters with apples and spice
Little fried muffins with cocoa-cake rice…

Fritters Frida is just fixin’ to grin
‘Cause she got whiff of that custardy maple thing
And we dream together, she and I
Of slinging deep fried custard in the president’s eye…

Oh, did I say something political,
That’s because Fritters Frida is critical
Of people who eat fried bread and creme tortes
But can’t stand up and speak in their shorts.

So if your shorts are too tight and you don’t have the cream
In your muffin or donut, you might as well scream.
Mr. Bush might hear you, and maybe he’ll fear you,
Or at the least, he’ll want to cover you with beans…

Mr. Cannibal President would eat you for dinner
And give you the reason :: you’re just a sinner
So spit in his eye, and fry up your pie
You’ll certainly come up the winner.

Well, Ms. Frida Fritter and I
We are sitting here in our pile of cookie pie
Thinking about the days gone by
And thinking about things we could fry.

My final idea is one that Bush had,
(Or maybe Bush had it because of his dad)
There’s a way to fry people without the greased lard
It’s much less difficult — much less hard…

You nuke ‘em with microwaves zapped from your thing
That has seven nozzles and is labeled “Here’s to spring”
They say it’ll only cook the outside of you brown,
But you never know, when Mr. Bush is around.

Well, Ms. Frida Fritter and I,
We are happy here in our fritter pie…
You see, Mrs. Fritter was fried…
So I thought, why not I?
And then I ended this thing with a sigh.

Kent Gustavson, Nov. 2005.

(For a more serious satire of flesh cooking weapons that the United States are developing, go to kentgustavson.com/cook)