What happens when the 40 Foot Buffet writers get the munchies with a deadline approaching? This tale of hunger, sorrow and sloth is inspired by Lord Tennyson’s poem “The Lotus Eaters”, in which sailors on their way back from battles at Troy find their desire to fight diminished after eating lotus flowers.
”Write!” Terry said, and pointed toward the computer,
“The deadline will be upon us soon.”
But in the afternoon they came unto a hunger
Which felt like it had been there since June.
Through the open window the scented air did swoon
thick with temptation from Krispy Kreme.
Hypoglycemia did weaken the body and increase the gloom;
And like a Siren’s song, a doughnut dream
Did haunt this writing team.
Oh, dough of dreams! some with a sugary coat
dripping off of their perfect curves with a golden glow
And some with sprinkles and custard and flavors unspoken.
Between them only five dollars to blow
They saw the gleaming “Hot Doughnuts Now” sign glow
from the upstairs office. Nearby the glorious machine drops
the wondrous rounds of dough,
soft and golden brown and dew’d with sugary tops!
They longed to eat this staple of cops.
The charmed store an ever present thought;
But, alas, the locations are but a few
where for five dollars boxes of bliss can be bought.
Bordered with green and many a winding queue,
all clamoring for a few;
A store where all doughnuts bask in fame!
’Round about with faces pale,
like moths to the deadly flame,
The round-bellied Doughnut-Eaters did come.
In boxes they carried the enchanted dough,
Laden with a taste and joy, their hearts doeth crave
to snack, but when doeth their consumption begin
so to taste the rush and sugary wave?
Far, far away did seem his partner’s mouth-full rave
of enchantment; And if his fellow spake,
His voice was ignored, as voices full of mistake;
And deep-asleep the Doughnut-Eater will seem, yet wide awake
To the music in the mouth his taste buds make.
They sat theirs down near the yellow lines
Between a Porsche and Datsun of the poor;
And sweet it was to eat and forget deadlines,
carbs and blood-sugar counts; but evermore
contended seemed Terry, quoting the raven, “ ‘Nevermore’
shall we make our weary fingers type.”
Then said Bill, “We will slave our minds no more.”
And all at once they sang, “Its like hunting snipe –
Fame is faraway and no one reads what we type!”
There are none with greater taste
not even those that Happy Doughnuts make
or those from Little Debbie bought in haste
near a highway overpass;
Doughnut’s holier than Mac’s fries,
more rapturous than what Dunkin plies.
Doughnuts that bring ecstasy down from the blissful skies.
Here our love runs deep
and tho’ the manager was a creep
and in his steam did almost make us weep
But now we have had our fill and long to sleep.
Why are we plagued with such heaviness
and utterly consumed with permanent press
while all others have rest from weariness
Other writers have readers, why should we type for no one?
We type and type our fingers to the rings
and with puns make each other moan,
from deadline to deadline thrown.
Alas, we need Buffalo Wings
and to cease from website posting.
We would rather lunch at the Palm
and cruise Rodeo Drive for bling.
”There is no joy but calm!
Why should we type and know not whether these lines laughter bring?”