Sponge Cakes on the March

I’m coming apart like a sponge cake,

yet you should know the whole story–

sometimes we’re also known as pound

cake, those dear, sweet after-dinner

sliced loaves, plain country cousins

to the imperial gateau family,

golden, moist (if not stale), foamy

possessing an honest, delectable.

taste to line and nurse the palate

in the company of a warm beverage.

Little is actually known of us,

our lineage goes back to England

400 years ago, before going abroad;

we are, in truth, quite intelligent

and intensely loyal to those who’ve

shown us a kindness or proper

regard and not left us to the rats.

I shouldn’t mention this, but

we are being studied at a certain

West Country laboratory for our military

potential, if needed, all very hush-hush;

we have been trained and are most

adept in small arms fire and projectiles;

don’t make us prove it, we can blow you

and half your town away in a blink

in defense of the realm, of course.


Gene Goldfarb is a writer and poet living on Long Island in New York. Besides writing, his passions are traveling, movies, and reading. His poetry has appeared in Black Fox, SLANT, COG, Green Briar, Quiddity and elsewhere.

Categories: Poetry

Daily Drunk

Shawn Berman runs The Daily Drunk. You can follow him on Twitter @Sbb_writer.

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