We asked for it and you provided! The Baconfest Literary Panel had their job cut out for them in choosing this year’s Baconfest Poet Laureate. And we picked a humdinger! With no further ado, we are please to share the winning poem and two runners up for our annual bacon poetry contest.
BUT FIRST!
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AND NOW!
The Golden Rasher Award-Winning Poem:
I Can’t
by Ian Andrews
I can’t write a poem about bacon,
it can’t be done, it’s too hard.
How do you put words to a food so beloved,
that’s worthy, complex, and pleasing to the bacon Gods above?
I could stanza, Haiku, or rhyme, but all fall short of divine.
And as my write block grows, all my brain knows,
is it’s dying for a plate of bacon to be mine.
No, I can’t write a poem about bacon,
I don’t even know where to begin.
Would I start with the taste or the smell?
Oh the sensation and bliss,
the emotional release when it hits,
as the crisp edge, tender center,
succulent indescribable taste blesses your lips
and my salivary glands immediately swell.
Yet, I still can’t write a poem about bacon,
I’m trying, I promise, but I fail.
Do I write about that first time,
that my life was changed by cooked swine?
I vividly remember at two year’s old,
when I broke free from hot dogs and tried a new flavor so bold.
Little did I know, that my future with food had peaked.
I had found my new favorite meal, and would eat it six times a week.
I’m about to give up on this poem about bacon,
I’m losing all faith it can be done.
Maybe I dabble in bacon history,
after all, to most its origin is a mystery.
I could paint a picture of 1500 B.C.,
as ancient chefs cut the meat and probably thought of me.
Little did they know, the pig back they’d soon smoke,
would become a symbol of personal emotional wealth,
and let’s be honest, true food inspiration and hope.
That’s it, I can’t write a poem about bacon.
It’s impossi.. wait, what’s that above?
Are my eyes bacon glazed,
or am I lost in a food daydream haze?
It’s structurally weak, it has me ready for a bacon feast.
Yet finally, I did it.
My white whale swan song has been sung.
My bacon poem, like the bacon on my stove top, is done.
The Runners Up:
The Great Bacon Galore
by Dorothy Frey
Twas the cold and dark night before
The Glorious Great Bacon Galore.
When bright chefs across the nation
Spent a year planning in anticipation.
Their most delectable bacon fare
For competition in the capitol’s square.
But up atop Mount Babaloo
Lived a fella named Larry Lagroo,
An evil and malicious man
With an evil and vicious plan.
See, nothing consumed Lagroo’s hate
More than seeing tastebuds celebrate.
So, with strips of a rubbery shoe,
He plotted a bacon switcheroo.
With his balding head and slouching stoop,
Larry concocted a warm, steamin’ soup,
Composed of sour broth and celery root
And his despicable bacon substitute
The next day, at the Great Bacon Galore,
Lagroo brought his soup to the chefs’ floor.
With a deceitful and insidious grin,
He filled each bowl to the brim.
After one small sip, heads were shaking.
People were horrified, their tummies aching.
Stomachs rumbled amongst the crowd.
Their groans and moans grew quite loud.
Then the smallest, youngest vocalization
Rose above the massive congregation.
It belonged to little Lacey Lenore
Who couldn’t be more than three or four.
“Listen Mr. Larry Lagroo.
We aren’t falling for your grue.
While sad, we know that you may not
Possess the love for bacon you ought.
But this venerable day is not forsaken.
We’ll still celebrate the exalted bacon.
So despite your intentionally bad flavor,
We have 99 more dishes to savor.”
Lenore’s wise words rang in Lagroo’s head
His face angered and turned beet red
Lagroo stormed off, back to his mountain top
Only to realize his fake bacon was a huge flop!
and
Give Me More Bacon
By 2016 Golden Rasher Winner David Kurtz
I have an earth quaking, blood-clot making, kosher breaking, get my booty shaking, appreciation for bacon
Not a hungry Jamaican, Not Joe Buck, Not Troy Aikman, could keep me from taking slice after slice of god’s greatest creation – his beautiful bounty named bacon.
Every Tom Brady Playmaking – Lady Gaga Roofshaking – Donald Trump Muckraking moment I live on this earth without bacon…
My heart will be breaking, My soul – forsaking, My brain – contemplating the moves I should be making to get my grease lacking hands on some damn bacon.
Do not be mistaken. There is no faking. My worship – earthshaking. My devotion – groundbreaking. My heart – palpating. Lord Please! – Give Me More Bacon.