The line was as long as a Krankletromp's tail

so I stood, stood, stood, but to little avail.

The problem? A tourist.

A tortoise-y tourist.

A sluggish fuddnudler whose whining did bore us.

"I would not like white rice.

I would not like brown rice."

The snarp in her tone was anything but nice.

And the anger of me and the other-liners too

pushed the tourist outside and sped-up the queue.

Onwards we marched, pleased to bits with our pace,

and when I was next, these words spewed from my face:

"One bowl.

To go.

White rice.

Pinto."

While the scoop-scooper scooped, I stared full of love

at all the grilled sneetch piled high in the tub.

But my nose caught the scent of another rare treat—

a bin of delectably seasoned roast beast.

I asked for one meat.

And then?

Why, for two!

Ignoring the digestive impact I would rue.

And that's how I made-up a bowl of half-sneetch

and a just-as-big ladle serving of beast.