::: That is no country for spices. The jam On larded biscuit spreads; among the sweets, The maraschino cherry on the ham. The salmon rolls, the crowded mac and cheese, Fish, flesh, or fowl, vegetables from a can, The mildest fare celebrated as treats. Caught in the sleepy blandness all will spurn Condiments laden with merciless burn. A bland palate is but a paltry thing, An idle tongue, a sweatless brow, unless, It joyously discovers capsaicin, And every meal with liveliness is blessed. No joy is greater than the harvesting Of sacred pods whom all proclaim the best. So I have traveled overland to be In the sandy, rolling fields of Waverly. Oh firey, potent pods upon the vine, Whose brilliant reds eclipse the tones of Fall, With every thunk, the bucket says you're mine, Had I but time, I would gather you all. Then after all my labors you will line The waiting shelves along my kitchen wall. Then be you dried, or potion held in glass, I'll always have you there to kick my ass. For ever more, when I will go to meet My fellow Chile Heads, each one will bring Some cherished sample of this Summer's heat To share with all, the blessed suffering. Then these red habs will make the scene complete, All friends together, in the firey ring. Then all will gladly raise a glass and toast The generosity of James the Host. :::