Mr. Nobody loves Alphabet Soup–
gazpachoed, paired with a fine Pinot Noir (it seemed to him 2006 had been a good year) and a side of children.
With their dash of salty tears, fat drops going plop and bloop,
in his cauldron.
Pinch of spice- red chili flakes sprinkled down from a nose sans a finger that was formerly jammed up the tiny head,
wiggling around an idiotic brain.
And what the ever-sticky, sugar coated hands? Two is enough or three if you have a sweet tooth and
love the feeling of sinking your teeth into rubbery flesh. A favorite of which he could not refrain.
Then the apex-crunching bone.
Laughter to taste. Innocent and loud, long and grating.
Mr. Nobody loves Alphabet Soup. Come back Mr. Baby. You have been a bad baby.