HOURS

Thu-Fri:

4 to 8 pm

Sat:

Noon to 8 pm

Sun:

Noon to 4 pm

Mon-Wed:

Closed

ADDRESS

 

56 Crawfordsburn

Union, Maine  04862

  • Grey Facebook Icon
  • Grey Instagram Icon
  • Grey Twitter Icon

FIND​ US

© 2019  The Pour Farm, LLC

Vince

by Lisa and Charles Huschle

It was a dark and rainy night

When I saw in the kitchen a frightful sight

That has benumbed me ever since:

It was my old dead friend, named Vince.

He was cooking in a pot

A stew of something that smelled of rot.

It smelled of things once alive, now dead.

It stank of earwax from your head.

It smelled of stuff that often grows

In deep dark furrows between your toes.

It looked like something you might see

In a barn of decaying poultry.

 

Vince had died many years ago

While walking naked in the snow.

He stood before me, skeletal, white.

His empty sockets bereft of sight.

His bony fingers held the spoon

With which he stirred, as he began to croon.

And as he crooned I heard a loon

Respond to his chaotic tune.

His song went something dark like this:

“I, Vince, have returned to make this stew

In hopes of finally pleasing you.

It lacks some spice and bloody parts,

And so I need to take your HEART.

 

He advanced on me, a carving knife upraised,

A wicked grin spread across his face.

Behind the door I had hid my bat

A Louisville Slugger, heavy and fat.

 

I took a stance and leaned back to swing

But not before I felt the sting

Of Vince’s knife on my skin.

He cut off my ear, which made me sing,

“Oh, Vince you devilish fiendish ghost

I’ll send you to hell! (I began to boast).

I’ll hit a home run with your rotting skull,

So far it’ll bounce off the Tour Eiffel. “

And with blood pouring from my head,

I clubbed Vince’s skull,

And went to bed.