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115th Weekly Poetry Contest honorable mention: Attack of the Fifty Foot Doughnut

by MHPayne

Act One

With its shriek tearing holes in the air,
Indescribably vast, the éclair
Levels buildings with ease.
Oh, the smashing of trees
And the wailing of souls in despair!

For it's scattered the forces of law
And of science, displaying no flaw.
Powdered sugar and tanks
End up stuck to its flanks
Or dissolved in its slathering maw.

From a parking garage, we observe,
And I wonder: who threw us this curve?
Did a demon or god
Or a pimple-faced clod?
Are we guilty of touching a nerve?

Either way, it's our chocolatey doom,
Its aroma all sweetness and gloom.
I had thought I would die
At the teeth of a pie,
But it— Wait. There's a whoosh! There's a zoom!

Look above! It's a bird! It's a plane!
No, it's not! It's a guy! That's insane!
It's a hero in tights
All ashimmer with lights
And his lip simply curled with disdain!

"Are you kidding? A doughnut?" he cries.
"I refuse! They go straight to my thighs!
Now, a savory treat,
I could possibly eat,
But a doughnut? I won't!" Off he flies.

Act Two

So the rampant destruction goes on
As we cower all night till the dawn
Brings a sight we had spurned:
It's the hero returned!
The reaction? A groan and a yawn.

"Not again!" comes a shout from below.
"You're a jerk and a finicky schmoe!
Unprofessional slob!
You can find a new job!
Go away! Take a powder and blow!"

"You'll forgive me," the hero replies
With a guttering flame in his eyes,
"If I don't have a taste
For such glutinous paste!
I prefer something meaty with fries!

"But I bid you, my friends, to fear not!
I have sworn I shall never be caught
Unaware anymore!
I shall give it what for
And will trounce it! Behold what I've brought!"

He unlimbers the edge of his cape
And exposes a conical shape.
As we strain, blinking up,
Someone shouts, "It's a cup!"
Which it is. We all stand there and gape.

"That's correct!" And with fingers upraised,
He explains it, completely unfazed:
"For with coffee in hand,
I can surely withstand
Any cruller or sprinkled or glazed!"

Act Three

In the carnage that follows, the rules
Of decorum are slaughtered like fools.
Every street is awash
In a flood of ganache,
And the custard is standing in pools.

Through the strewn-about boulders of cake,
People stagger and wish it were fake.
Did the hero survive?
Could he still be alive?
Will his victory bash be a wake?

I can hear someone sniffle nearby,
Then a gasp, and they raise up a cry:
"Is that coffee I smell?
Over here! What the Hell?"
And I see him. I cannot deny

He's expanded, so nearly a sphere,
When I rush to his side, it's unclear
If he's breathing.  "Hello?
Are you living or no?"
But he belches: "I am, though I fear

"It'll take me some time to digest
What I found of its brain and the rest
Of its ganglion bits."
With a wobble, he sits.
"So remaining in place might be best."

We construct him a hut out of pine,
And for weeks, people wait in a line
To say thanks for his deeds
And to see to his needs.
But he grins and insists that he's fine.

In a world that is often askew,
I've encountered a problem or two.
But for some of my stress,
I've discovered success
When I dunk it in coffee and chew.

115th Weekly Poetry Contest