Fresco de Silva—fastidious glutton,
Would rarely (if ever)
pay for his mutton.
He pilfered carrots simply from habit,
and his neighbor’s best lettuce—
which annoyed the rabbit.
His front room was filled
with potatoes au gratin—
which though aromatic,
were clearly ill-gotten.
And don’t bother fishing
for fish for your stew,
‘cause he chartered a boat—
now he’s got all those, too.
And so it went on,
with the town growing thinner.
With nothing for lunch—
even less for dinner
‘Til they finally went ‘round
to his house on the moor,
with its neatly trimmed hedges,
and newly-waxed floors.
And they shouted their angry
caloric demands—
“Put our food back
in our own skinny hands!”
But there was no answer,
rebuttal, nor word,
so they broke down the door
and charged in, in a herd.
They made straight for the kitchen,
prepared for the fight—
to make the man pay,
to make the wrong right.
And there, past the pastry,
the pudding and knishes,
they found Fresco de Silva—
exhausted to death—
on a pile of very clean dishes.