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.