Menu Du Jour

Hors d'oeuvres

Is our goose cooked?

Are we fried with half-baked ideas?

Going to be toast? Burnt?

I am boiling mad

at this recipe for disaster!

Dinner

The lunatic has me in a stew, a real pickle.

The inauguration feels like an empty plate.

I am going bananas and my

despair is hard to swallow.

He wants us to eat crow.

I mull over thoughts that we will now eat what we sow for

stealing this land from the native people and having slaves?

I am hungry as a bear to change our direction. He seems

nutty as a fruitcake, sour as vinegar, a bad apple.

Have we just bought a lemon?

I want to drop him like a hot potato but we

will be forced to eat dirt, or is it humble pie?

I eat my heart out at this kettle of fish.

For him it was like taking candy from a baby, a piece of cake.

I lived in Idaho and know that he sold himself like sugarcoated

hotcakes to the salt of the earth who didn't suspect that he might be

rotten to the core and selling pie in the sky.

They didn't take his words with a grain of salt

and we all will eat his whole enchilada.

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Dessert

I will spill the beans. I don't

know how this meal will end.

I am full of trepidation since I've

seen what these same ingredients

cooked up in Germany. I just hope

that all of those bats stay in their cave.