by Gideon O. Burton

Nacho Hell
by Gideon O. Burton

The ancient Mayas fried their mash of maize,
Creating crispy strips of crunchy corn.
Upon an altar, smoking fires ablaze,
Tomato and cilantro slush was born:
The Holy Salsa, hot to feed the gods,
Was slathered on the chips with shouts of glee;
A taster slave would have to beat the odds
As Jalapeņos melt him to the knees.
A vat of rude Velveeta, spiced and warm,
Would through a trough be splashed upon the mix.
The priestesses of munching would perform,
Cavorting like a mass of colored sticks.
     Today, no take-out fetched from Taco Bell
     Could match the brimstone of that nacho hell.

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