A poem

Off with your head,
little chef's hat;
slide down into the olive oil,
swim with garlic kernels as hot liquid wakes you
from your black sleep.

Chopped, you multiply
like the dancing brooms in "Fantasia."
Tossed with artichokes in the pan,
your cap, a water-filled canteen
whose juices soften into a meaty center.
Sliced thin, topped with grated Parmesan,
your silhouetted umbrellas mix with white rain.

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