This is really too good: There was a kitchen brawl at the Algonquin Hotel last Sunday, involving a disgruntled waiter, an acerbic sous-chef and a supercillious host. A deadly butter knife was picked up, hands were “slashed,” and editors across the city sadly and dutifully trotted out their Dorothy Parker references. Me, I wrote this poem (with apologies to Robert Benchley and Ben Greenman):
The waiter frowned, began to mutter,
Picked up the knife, right from the butter.
First he slashed the evil cook
Who cried aloud and wept and shook.
Then he poked the haughty host,
Mistaking him for untouched toast.
Spreading mayhem, woe and pain
The waiter’s rage began to wain.
The screaming stopped, the day grew darker,
And so appeared the spectral Parker.
Speaking from the other side,
Her caustic shade, morose and snide,
Cleared its throat, was heard to utter,
“If you’re the knife, god help the butter.”