The ravenous friend of Carson Bell
Ate what he ate, and he ate very well.
He rolled into town at a quarter to four,
And by six-twenty, our town was no more.
There was no early warning of the size of his lunch,
He said not a thing, just started to munch,
Knelt down his lips to the edge of the curb
And, yes, I think “gobbled” is exatly the verb –
God knows there is needed some simple word
For the way this friend ate I say was absurd!
He passed up the bread, peanut butter and jelly
Indeed, ’twas the buildings he meant for his belly!
He devoured the clock tower, hour by hour,
As if minutes were sugar, as if seconds were flour!
The giant chronometer went straight down his gullet
No tock, no tick, just as fast as a bullet!
The train station was next destined for gastric attack,
The friend chowed down every train, every track,
He tossed it all into his mouth with a sneer,
Every poor passenger! Each poor engineer!
When his eyes alit upon the old town library
You could see in his eyes he mistook it for cherry,
Crunching the bricks between his mighty jaws,
He slurped down every page without a belch or a pause!
Oh why, oh why, did you, Carson Bell,
Bring us this friend, this cousin of Hell?
Was it some obscure form of culinary revenge?
Or was it the result of a mind off its hinge?
But Carson, that Carson, that lovable puck,
Chuckles and cackles at his friend run amok,
We may never know why he unleashed this assault,
For Carson says nothing – just passes the salt.

(Please forgive the sudden burst of poetic doggerel; I was writing a report on my trip to China this summer and I swear my mind had a mental burp. This was the result. I felt I had to share.)