I was born to parents
who taught me manners,
those behaviors,
sometimes feeble attempts
at keeping human respect intact.

In fact, most times it usually works.
You should have the seen the faces
of the food peddlars (and their families),
street vendors, surrounded
by squalor & vermin,
when I purchased their wares,
a side order of pomme frites
topped by raw shaved carrots.

The fries were one thing,
cooked clean through,
but the carrots were accepted
only to be a good sport.
I didn't have the heart to say no,
especially with two young ones
tugging on the heels of the cook.
After all, it's only polite
to respect the customs
of the host country,
and I guess
raw carrots on French fries
are a tradition in that
part of the world.

O, you should have seen
the look on my face as I sat,
hugging the commode
for eight solid days
running full speed
with the trots.
I never even got to
see the rest of the country.

Being Mr. Manners
cost me five grand in travel expenses,
half an intestine & most
of my stomach lining.
I think bugs,
lots of them,
still live inside me.
My internist calls them parasites.

I only have my parents to thank,
they gave me manners
& helped me pay
for some of the
three thousand dollars
in doctor's bills
& for all the tiny white pills.