Written On the eve of the End of the World, 2012…
As the world quietly comes to a close on this blustery night, I find myself huddled under covers, in the company of the best cat the world will have ever made. The last book I will have read will have been the Golden Compass, which is essentially “The Chimney Sweeper” from Songs of Innocence made into a book. Fitting. All seems as I would want it to be and I am ready to sink Lethe-wards…
And then I remember, alas, my last moments at Stanford. But I remember not which friends I last saw, what jokes we had… I revisit not the tower of Margaret Jacks, nor the stately pleasure dome of Florence Moore Hall.. But rather, I turn my thoughts upon the last meal of which I partook in the quaint establishment which resides in Huang Centre for the People of the Engineering. My last supper….
Oh Ike’s! How I long for thee on this sad, wintry night—perhaps my last on this earth.
Shall we e’er be joined as one, again?
Shall the Name of the Girl I’m Dating be forever chaste?
Shall our lips, cruelly rent apart, ever meet once more?
Thou still unravish’d bride of Halal chicken and honey mustard sauce!
Thou foster-child of toasted dutch bread and pepper jack cheese!
Stalwart onion! What lettuce-fringed legend haunts about thy shape!
More happy banana peppers! more happy, happy banana peppers!
Forever warm and still to be enjoy’d..
To what Havarti altar, O mysterious Leninade,
Lead’st thou that sandwich lowing at the skies,
And all her crunchy, provolone-clad flanks with teriyaki sauce drest?
O Attic shape! fair Carmel Apple Sucker! Thou, silent form!
dost tease us out of thought as doth avocado and zesty orange glaze:
Cold, soggy Jim Rome! When old age shall this generation waste, thou shalt remain.
‘Full Sandwich is truth, truth, Full Sandwich,—
that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.’
- John Keats, feat. Sarah Weston