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Please Pass the Potatoes

I’m not feeling spiritual and grace goes on too long.
It’s been at least ten minutes since I heard the dinner gong.
Six hours have now passed away since I imbibed in lunch.
Six hours since I had a chance to bite and chew and munch.

If they have fresh rolls, I swear that I could use a dozen.
That’s eleven just for me and one more for my cousin.
I trust that you won’t think this poem implies that I’m a glutton.
I don’t eat fish or mushrooms, rabbit, lamb or mutton.

So it isn’t true that I eat everything I see.
I just partake in food that I know agrees with me.
Cupcakes yes. Caviar no. Tripe I’ll give a miss.
Hearts and brains and liver are dishes that I diss.

I love hot dogs and hamburgers and gravy on potatoes,
but spinach does not thrill me. Nor do turnips nor tomatoes.
But if pot pies are what they’re serving now that grace is finally through,
I admit that I could do away with one or two.

Prompts today are trust, lunch, spiritual, imply, dozen,