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I first encountered this with a staff member who performed it set to the Masterpiece Theater music in the most formal outfit he could scrounge up at camp.

I suggest you do the same.


by John Strong

Oh SPAM! Oh SPAM! Gourmet delight!

My food by day, my dreams by night.

To carve, to slice, to dice you up -

pureed in a blender and sipped from a cup.


What shining deity from Olympus knelt

down to the earth and hog butt smelt?

Creating then man's eternal desire

for swine entrails congealed by fire.


On some corporate farm, a pig has died.

Eyes, tongue, and snout end up inside

that cube of SPAM hidden in the can

I now hold in my trembling hand.


More than mere food, SPAM is for me

a hedonistic expression of gluttonous glee.

Mottled with pork fat, the pink cube engrosses.

My mouth takes it in, my intestine disposes.


Long have my arteries clogged to the sound

of sizzling SPAM when there's no one around -

furtively chewing or swallowing whole.

Triple bypass by forty, my medical goal.


Other processed meat products I've tried or declined

Vienna Sausages, Treet, even pig's feet in brine.

Though each may be tasty in different ways,

none matches SPAM for gelatinous glaze.


That glistening pinkness beckons me

with gristle, fat, and BHT.

Oh Spam, my Spam - the taste, the smell -

The sacred meat product from Hormel.

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