A Night Out at Fogo
de Chão
(The following poem is meant to be humorous, awful, the sort of thing sane writers shove under the crumpled wads of worthier efforts stashed in the circular file - it is not intended to be great "litrahchure," so please do not feel obligated to point out to me that "it sucks.")
Raging,
ravenous need to tear
Great hunks of meat from proffered skewers
While sipping a mojito: rum, crushed mint, fresh lime.
Take
a picture of this:
Chewing, swallowing - need to breathe?
Flip the coaster, green to red, hold up a hand - STOP!
Not
a flattering photo.
A Brazilian steak house? No place
for pinch-faced vegetarians, Hindus, or members of PETA.
Non,
je regrette rien...
Except, maybe, the salad bar. Superfluous
It seems, now. Greens, rice, pickled things, quail eggs, soup...
Pre-filler
filler-upper.
Never say "diet" at Fogo
de Chão;
it has the word "die" in it. "Die" starts with
"d" and marks an end,
As
does "dessert."
Oh, Holy Mother of Pearl -
They serve dessert here, too?
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