My father truly fancied food.
"I live," he said, "to eat!"
Every morsel of his meal
was meant to be a treat.

He'd break his fast with scrambled eggs
he ate right from the pan
with butter-slathered crusty bread
and sardines from a can.

Sometimes for lunch he'd send me for
a sandwich from the deli.
"Pastrami, mustard, gouda cheese,"
he'd grin and pat his belly.

He also knew the menus cold
of Reno's big casinos.
"Harrah's has prime rib all day.
None better Heaven knows!"

Primadonna's smorgasbord
would often be his choice.
"Those giant prawns and rich desserts!"
my father would rejoice.

If Mom prepared a dinner well,
Dad rhapsodized and raved.
But pork too rare, the lamb too done,
not one small scrap was saved.

I bet Dad's chatting on a cloud.
St. Peter's ears are numb.
In heaven he can speak all day
of gourmet meals to come.