"Advice to young writers...do not write about Man, write about a man." --Unknown

Once upon a time there was a man;

A man with an exceptional tan.

His residence was in LA, 

He was the neighbor to Michael Bay.

He loved the sun and the surf,

Really, a true king of his turf.  

Yet something wasn't right--

he had a new life in sight.

  So the man went hitchhiking, hitchhiking, hitchhiking. The man went hitchhiking, though he had a Porsche. Because the man felt something missing, something missing, something missing. The man felt something missing: it was his grandmother's borsch. But his grandmother was deceased, was deceased, was deceased. His grandmother was deceased, thirty years before.

 The man had heard that in New York,

 the cuisine was beyond compare.

Oh yes in New York,

you'll never lack for anything (except air).

So he left the sun, the golf course, the Porsche;

he left it all, in the search for the perfect borsch.

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Borsch is a Russian soup, by the way. ; )

updated Aug 26 by missaleatoire