Poem #62

We met a guy outside Oxford station,

Whose accent, by my guesstimation,

Synched cockney and northern Australian.

From behind his grill he wore a permagrin,

Vending a limited menu therein

(With the odd translation in Mandarin).

When, at length, I enquired about these

Infrequent Hanzi, he replied, ‘If you please,

They reconcile my commercial needs.

If all were translated, people might see

My humble grill as an outlet Chinese;

So to preserve my name as a barbecue,

I determined only to gloss the most select few.

But, because I orientally spell some,

My Chinese clients always feel welcome.’

Unsure what else I might feasibly say,

I nodded,

‘Understandable, have a nice day.’

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