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Barbecue Sauce

Crazy bastard spends more time fussing over his sauce than he does his meat.

standing over that saucepan, sprinkling in a pinch of this,

pouring in a dash a that,

stirring with that wooden spoon, and sniffin’

always sniffin’,

like some Italian granny making spaghetti sauce.

I just sit back in my chair,

and pop open another beer.

Was some damn fine sauce,

maybe the best,

would have bet it would make cardboard taste good,

couldn’t save that charred black piece of meat he had the audacity to call barbecue.

Categories: Poetry
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