Scrapple is a fickle food
Upon a shifting plate
Whose table once a
Guest but not
The second time has apples.

Whose offal the crows inspect
And with ironic shrapnel
Flap past it to the Farmer's Cornmeal –
Men eat of it and yum.

Ah, crap, the above was from me.

A poem for a prize
About offal in disguise
Victim of shrapnel in between the eyes
Apple in mouth le cochon before me lies

Off fell the Offal
Awful they cried!
Not a shrapnel of apple
Could save that scrapple’s hide.

(I'm going for runner up!)

In a war-torn land, a poor lass named Nell was longing for something to eat.
So they cut up a pig and off-loaded the offal and thought that would give her a treat.
But her appetite failed when the scrapple appeared. So there midst the shrapnel's din
To make her eat scrapple, her friends had no choice. They had to strap Nell in.
For unlike the apple with which it rhymes, scrapple is bad to the core.
And after one serving of this awful dish, you seldom hear folks ask for more.
So all I can say is to scrap the whole thing by calling on those in Annapolis
To make offal unlawful and thereby resolve, from that moment on, to unscrapple us.

After Wallace Stevens's The Emperor of Ice-Cream (with apologies).

The Emperor of Scrapple

Call the wrangler of big porkers,
The crepuscular one, and bid him whip
In abattoir vats offalescent orts.
Let the sows dawdle in such pens
As they are used to dwell, and let the boars
Bring apples as porcine gift victuals.
Let be be finale of eat.
The only emperor is the emperor of scrapple.

Take from the hind of swine,
Slapping the three lardy slabs, that sheet
On which she broiled the ungulates once
And spread them so as to cover in corn meal.
If the cloven hooves protrude, they come
To show the shrapnel of hope, and suede.
Let the knife affix its sheen.
The only emperor is the emperor of scrapple.

here's a series of haiku that we wrote for our books, An Ode to Scrapple and An Ode to Scrapple Part Two (view images here: http://julilose.com/work.html)

my diner order
two eggs, poached please, with rye toast
and, of course, scrapple

dear scrapple, you rock.
why are you so delicious?
i love you. xo

Breakfast of the Gods,
it's both crispy and creamy.
Scrapple, I love you.

Boy, I love Scrapple!
So delicious and mushy
I could marry it.

here's a series of haiku that we wrote for our books, An Ode to Scrapple and An Ode to Scrapple Part Two

I'm sorry I started this. That offal verbiage is literally the scrapple of poetry. Part Two? REALLY?

Ha ha. What's funny is that some loser is out there using Google Alerts to email them every instance on the interwebs where "scrapple" is mentioned so that they can hawk their pulp.

I think haikus might just be Owlie's kryptonite (along with mayo and hugs), so keep them coming. ;-P

ODE TO SCRAPPLE

Scrapple, oh Scrapple, the food of my youth,
I ate you as soon as I cut my first tooth.
Sliced thinly and fried, with some crisp on the fringe,
Topped with thick King Syrup, to hide why you cringe.

Just don’t tell me what’s in that gelatinous roll,
My Mom used to say: Pig lips and a** holes.
“Hog offal” sounds better, but still not that great,
“Entrails” should not be used to describe what I ate.

An ancestor of panhas, the Low German dish,
We Marylanders should thank the Amish,
For once they had butchered the rest of the pork,
The scraps and the apple were ground up for our fork.

I don’t care what’s in it, as long as you fry it,
You’re the one missing out if you refuse to try it.
And even though many are grossed out and adverse,
I’ll take Scrapple on my plate…because haggis is worse!

Emily B!

There once was a man, quite a loud offal boaster.
He’d wax rhapsodic about things he was so sure.
He’d say, “Scrapple is tasty!
It’s not at all pasty.”
I wouldn’t know because it’s not kosher.

Oh, umm… apple, shrapnel :-)

And may I say that there are some darned creative people on this blog.

Hey! In case you were curious, we wrote the books for Scrapple-Fest that takes place at Reading Terminal in Philly every April. And no we don't have Google Alerts set up for the scrapple book. Good idea though!

(p.s. a functioning link... http://juliannalose.com/work.html)

Fair is your honest happy face
Great chieftain of the Offal race
Above them all you take your place
Everything but the oink
Well are you worthy of a grace
Pressed out in block form.

The groaning breakfast platter there you fill
Oh piggy shrapnel like a distant hill
Your binding cornmeal would help to repair a mill
In time of need
While through your pores the greases emerge
Like oozing, ephemeral beads

His knife having seen hard labor wipes
And cuts you up with great skill
Digging into your gelatinous insides bright
Like any ditch
And then oh what a glorious sight
Quivering, steaming, rich

Then spoon for spoon
They stretch and strive
Devil take the last man, on they drive
Until all their well swollen bellies
Are bent like drums
Then, the old Baltimoron most likely to rift (burp)
Be thanked, mumbles

Is there that over his French pate
Or wurst that would sicken a German
Or terrine would make her vomit
With perfect disgust
Looks down with a sneering scornful opinion
On such a breakfast

Poor devil, see him over his trash
As week as a vegan
His spindly arms a quick whiplash
His clenched fist the size of a nut.
Through a fakin’ bacon breakfast with textured vegetable protein
Oh how unfit!

But take note of the strong scrapple fed Hon
The trembling earth resounds his tread
Clasped in his large fist a Natty Boh and crab mallet!
It’ll wet his whistle
And on his plate a cut of eggs and pork flavored fun
Down the hatch, it goes

You FDA powers who make mankind your care
And dish them out their balanced nutritional pyramid
Old Baltimore wants no veg-head “food”
That resembles nothing anyone should ever eat!
But if you wish her grateful prayer
Give her a scrapple, Hon!!

(PS: No offense to Robert Burns, or anyone Scottish was intended by the writing of this poem. But I definitely intended to offend vegetarians and vegans.)

I’m ready to try out some Scrapple-
It has to be better than shrapnel.
I know it’s from offal,
And yet I am hopeful,
Like Skinner with Mrs. Krabappel.

Piedmont Pastoral

Where hast thou been, sister?
Killing swine.

In the middle of a clearing
three mennonite hags
a cast-iron cauldron
a refining fire
Into the pot go the hog-scotched scraps,
discards from the pig-ham,
meat-scrapings bone-shards
fragments ligaments
snout-screech tail-squeal
[Here's the smell of the blood still]
awful surrendering
offal rendering
heart rending

Up on the laurel hillside
young lovers
scrambling scrappling
scraping grappling
look into the fair and open face of heaven
then play Scrabble with
words inscribed on leaves scattered
before the mouth of a cave.
He gets five points for TRUST
She tops that with eleven points for BETRAY
and loses

Et in Arcadia ego

Circe struts in spiked heels through the sylvan scene,
peers into the darkening cauldron at the hell-broth,
WTF?
Needs seasoning.
Sage, from the latin salvia, "to heal".
Thyme for courage.

Three hags, stirring expiation in a pot.

Some great entries here, but I doff my all-too-prosaic hat to Laura Lee!

I would enter this contest, but don't want to chance winning the prize!

Captcha sniffs "snobbish last." Harrumph.