a poem about chilli
eating chilli con carne
at a sort of party
i cant help but boast
to my host
with eyes full of reverie
recounting my victory
in the great swansea chilli cookoff of 2004
which sound impressive, but was more
a case of rivalry
with a friend in the hovel we
thought was a student palace
we chopped and prepped with malice
in our knives
we cooked like our lives
depended on the the double blind test
of the chilli our friends liked the best
in fairness both were tasty
i worried i may have been hasty
in my boastful trash talking crowing
the plates were cleaned and in growing
anticipation of knowing
who the victor was going
to be we withdrew
as 15 good men and true
(or assorted students)
cast their ballots
somewhere in the retelling
my one vote marin
usually gets inflated to a thrashing
and a wink with a bit of panache in
