The Clump of Mustard

A fork scrapes the last of the sauce –
Not the very last, but the last attainable parts if the eater had a fork, and this eater had a fork –
Leaving a smeared pattern design around the base, (the plate itself was tilted up, away from the seat)
These remains were just as good as the rest of it
Just as flavourful
Just as chunky (within reason)
Just as colourful
But still remained behind
Just dumb luck that the fork scrape pattern was then considered scum, mutt, jism, or grease
The plate was scrubbed clean
The remainder dribbled down through the sinkhole
Down a series of connected pipes
Into a wonderful place
Where no amount of sauce is left behind


The Clump of Mustard looked down upon its minions, bowing, chanting to him
Calling his name, telling of his journey, through the well known song:

Long live The Clump of Mustard
For his journey here from some sort of lamb dish
Amongst the broccoli
Amongst the peas
Amongst the corn
But he was not yet born
But once abandoned by his owners
The Clump Of Mustard escaped
Through the Hole of Eternity, the Waterhole of Churn, the entrance to Annexia
Where he got a job as a simple herdsman, milking cattle, and occasionally tending to the crops
Until the culture grew, and The Clump of Mustard’s empire flourished until he became the Leader
But he was not yet born
Where he abolished disease
Where he banished the Spreading Grime
Where he challenged the Dark Lords through a series of intricately detailed riddles
Where he deceived the Controlling Spirits by crossing the bank in his own built craft made of shards of discarded toothpicks, the mightiest of soluble yet mouldable materials
Where he engulfed the Feast of 9000 Brines, and not a moment after any other Clump from all the other lands
But he was not yet born
Where he fended off the Devil, resisting temptation even in the most extreme moments of poverty
Where he gave life to his younglings, all brave, courageous and dastardly in their own right
Where he helped the South Quadrant solve their differences with the East
Where he instigated the New Great Law
Where he jailed the Twin Raiders
Where he killed the Beast of Blyxstyputz using only his bare spices
Where he lived nine lifetimes, choosing eight as ruler, and once as mould, to experience life under his own rule, in order to be a better leader
But he was not yet born
Where he mined the fields for resources to survive the dry months
Where he nailed his own coffin
Where he opened the earth for his own grave
Where he penned his own epitaph
Where he quelled the tradition, in order to not be buried with his own riches, but to spread it evenly throughout his kingdom at his passing
Where he raced Death on His Own Turf, only to win, and secure his immortality
But he was not yet born
Where he sewed his own seeds
Where he tasted his own innards
Where he unveiled his own regulations and limitations
Where he vowed to start over, to listen
Where he willed us to fight back
Where he xylphoiled the plish glubtructs, with the passion of fourteen careneerers
Where he yelled in the face of his own demise
Where he zyphyred as he left, as graceful as he came, lightly as the wafting scent of his own juices, promising to return when he was needed…
No, the The Clump of Mustard is not yet born
But he is here
He is among us
He is with us
He lives through us
He is us
Long live the Clump of Mustard
Lest we too be taken back home
To the unclean plates below
Not yet born
He looks down upon us and he hears us sing his song
Not yet born
Not yet born
Not yet born

– Scott Sandwich



Filed under Poems & Poetry

3 responses to “Sauce

  1. some lady

    you are one little cat, aren’t you?

  2. some lady

    ah. I see I missed an important word. crazy cat, that’s what I was saying.

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