From The Funny Farm to Table
By Stephanie M Mancini
From the Funny Farm to Table
Spoken Word Intro
"Where have all the Nonnas gone?
What happened to the sacred Sunday meal...
where every weekend was a holiday,
and every generation carried a sacred tradition?"
Verse 1
Step inside and take a seat, the fire's burning low.
Forget the buzz of hustle and empty rush of windows on the go.
The world outside is driving by, just feeding on the fast,
But what we have inside this room is built to heal and last.
The smell of raw garlic stewing, perfuming the air,
Was bound to make its way to our mouths like a true breath of fresh air.
The sauce was slowly simmering, the table waiting there,
And somehow every soul that entered knew there was enough to share.
Chorus
Come pull your chair up closer to the table that we share.
An appetite that reaches far beyond the plate we see.
We'll cleanse the palate slowly, let the bitter flavors heal,
And gather at the center for a true, full-course meal.
Verse 2
Medium-rare eyes, already satiated, will miss the beauty of the start,
If they only view presentation, they'll never taste the heart.
I've simmered down the heavy years to bring you something sweet,
Down deep inside the marrow where our souls are meant to meet.
Chorus
Come pull your chair up closer to the table that we share.
An appetite that reaches far beyond the plate we see.
We'll cleanse the palate slowly, let the bitter flavors heal,
And gather at the center for a true, full-course meal.
Bridge
No chewing up and spitting out, no swallowing the pride.
The nourishment is ready now, so come and step inside.
Beyond the surface styling, past the outer silver rings,
We're breaking bread to savor the raw heart of all things.
Chorus
Come pull your chair up closer to the table that we share.
An appetite that reaches far beyond the plate we see.
We'll cleanse the palate slowly, let the bitter flavors heal,
And gather at the center for a true, full-course meal.
Outro
So rest your hands.
Taste the soul.
A home-cooked grace to make us whole.
