Alone along the urban alley, Maude Ma’s ample amble rolls, nay, sways.
See her super-sized chest, her heavy jowls and chins, the thick thigh and thumb.
Azure and ebony robes vault round her trunk.
The hotel doors swing apart and her gut belch booms.
She hails the owner, calls out her order: squid and pesto pasta; spicy vegie and sheep-shank crock pot; salty chard, broad beans and onion salad; olive oiled toast; zesty lemon-syrup cream pie; and three beers.
She trips tween table and bench, falls afoul the floor, yelps, flaps while rising, and twits, “Who would bet I’ll scoff the lot?”
The diners and winos cry bogus, bluff and hooey, but baldy Bryce yells “sixty bucks” and the ludic crowd crows.
Maude cries “Empty the bag, Bryce. Upend the purse! Let the notes cover the table.”
“Haply happy, Madam, for you could never eat the lot.”
See her first bites, the taste, the smile, the bliss.
And now she chews, gulps, wolfs, and bolts the meals, swigs the malty swill, burps, rests, yawns, picks her teeth, and makes her claim, “the ultra yummy snack!"
Baldy Bryce looks crook — his seven moans, “How money wanes! May other times flunk, but not now. Spare the slack wit silly bloke. Mercy! Let one off. Aaagh! Laugh aloud, but it’s not funny.”
“The check, sweet sir.”
The owner shows the sum.
Maude hands him the money she won.
This post was edited by Benedict Arnold at February 4, 2018 4:14 PM MST
