It was a different assortment of offerings from the usual. Instead of lunch food, it was brunch food. OK, fine, I thought. My reaction upon tasting it, however, was such that I was moved to write the following bit of verse. It's done to the meter of The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe, which ought to be a clue right there!
[I also considered titling it The Raven(ous)]
Once upon a Friday luncheon,
As I set about to munchin',
In anticipation of our customary bill of fare,
As I got myself a plateful,
How I hoped that nothing hateful
Would upon my plastic plate repose and so befoul the air.
And that there's an empty chair.
There I stared upon an awful
Limp and dying Belgian waffle.
Seeing no alternative, I shoveled it onto my plate.
Something white on something green,
Referred to as "Eggs Florentine."
I can only pray the hen that laid these eggs knew not their fate.
And dessert was second-rate.
To the caterer I’m saying,
And to God I now am praying,
To the moon I now am baying,
Baying, so you can't ignore!
When might you consent to dish us
Something tasty and nutritious?
I'm not asking loaves and fishes
“When?” is all that I implore!
Quoth my chances, "Nevermore!"