GRITS by Steve Melton Grits have done a great disservice To this Southern man, Offending one displaced person With stereotypic simplicity. Gruel intimidation. Grits, the taste of crud. Grits, the breakfast of Big Mama. Her grits will never choke me. If America ate only grits And Eb was the commander in chief I'd kill him with piano wire Flee on foot to Wounded Knee Confer with tribal elders Turn myself in- to a wilderness And cease to be. Cousin Mae! Sit on the porch with me With dirty feet And we'll discuss Monster trucks, Drink piss warm beer, Eat grits and clay, Inbreed. Grits fucked me up, From plates in Texarkana, Baton Rouge, Louisiana, Memphis, Tennessee. I knife them to the side, Gouging gleefully Their hominy eyes. Copyright 1995, Steve Melton =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Mike Baker posted this to the Chefs mailing list: "A very good friend of mine who recently passed away was a southern poet transplanted in Cleveland. His name was Steve Melton. One of my favorite poems he wrote was about grits. Here it is."