I was at a wedding all day. The bridesmaids were talking about a bacon festival that apparently happens somewhere nearby, and, uh… well, you can’t just say “bacon festival” in my presence like it won’t make me start imagining things.
The crackling fat can be heard for miles.
The sun is vague in the sky at midday,
clouds of vaporized pig over the midway
where they set up the bacon piles.
They have a dunk tank full of bacon jam –
room temperature, of course, but don’t inhale –
kill a man that way, go to Bacon Jail
where no one’s ever even heard of ham.
Bacon figurines and bacon favors,
at two o’clock they crown the Bacon Queen,
clad in the most delicious gown you’ve seen.
To attend, you have to sign a waiver;
by midnight, poor girl looks a little green,
but her canine subjects love her flavor.