The Runcible Spoon

In the fires of the desert sun, scorching at noon,

as I stumbled through sand dunes and cactus,

I was cool, hands and feet, took no note of the heat,

for the simple and terrible fact is

my sweat was constrained by a Runcible Spoon.

In the fiercest of hurricanes, blasting in June,

as Poseidon assaulted in billows,

on the Bay of Biscay, through the Straits of Malay,

my head restlessly tossed on berth pillows:

it was weighted in woe by the Runcible Spoon.

Yes, I've read in the tomes of the Wizards of Drune

of the powers this implement wields:

it can nourish the sick, and achieves the great trick

of increasing your right-of-way yields—

there's no fork in the road to the Runcible Spoon.

At last, quest abandoned, my wife hums a tune

as she cooks me a scone in the kitchen.

The cat on my lap, ‘twixt nirvana and nap,

so serene are his eyes as I scritch him—

could it be that he knows of the Runcible Spoon?

For the key to the secret that made magi swoon,

I’d spell seven christs on their cruel crucifii,

I’d trade places with Faustus, whatever the cost was,

if someone could tell me before I should die:

where in heaven or hell is the Runcible Spoon?!