A poem by: Ben Dunk. October 24, 1969.
HEINZ TINS MEANS CANS.
Tin openers and tin-cans are terrible tyrants
They rule and rouse our household into frenzied participation
First the anguished cry of my wife, from the kitchen.
“Darling, I can’t open this tin-can, can you?”
There she stands, helpless and fuming,
surrounded by our collected, useless, tin-can openers,
Purchased after successive past moments of frustrating tin-can battles.
Wall types, mechanical types , electric types, butterfly nut types and
another fitted to the electric mixer
Not one will shift the top
or the bottom
of this now bent and battered tin-can
appearing so frail, yet, retaining the contents intact
safer than a Chubb safe.
“Let me have a go” says I in a masterful manner.
Selecting a new weapon: a pointed beer can opener
This punctures easily the top, with a pop!
I glance triumphantly over towards my admiring spouse
as the decompressed tomato juice squirts out
all over the front of my new mohair suit.