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by F.J. Bergmann
Alfred Hitchcock gave a dinner party.
Carefully prepared for each stunned guest,
the entire meal was blue. “This is no jest,”
he intoned. “Eat up! I hope you all have hearty
appetites; I shall feel quite offended
(as will my chef) if you do not consume
this azure feast—you may also presume
your Hollywood careers to be forthwith ended.”
No Sapphire City trick of colored lenses:
true-blue roast beef, cobalt fries, turquoise blue
ice cream—unnatural, an ominous hue.
“Dye—or die?” they must have wondered as they took
that first bite, then another; exchanged a look
that said, eloquently, “He’s lost his senses.”