RSS SPIRIT

"They write poems, name bars and ground beef sandwiches after me."

When a bar called the Skylark offers a Skylark burger, patrons consider it an easy decision. What makes the burger signature? No, it is not made out of that elusive bird which so enthralled sickly British Romantic poets in the 19th century. In fact, it is something else altogether. The standard cheeseburger is augmented, or rather slathered, with mustard cole slaw and onion rings to create a formidable stack of a sandwich. What's more, the evil geniuses in the flourescent hovel in back have added to the awesomeness by serving the Skylark burger with a mound of tater tots on the side.

Patrons dig in to this bar tack with nary a care in the world, washing things down with cascades of peewater known in these parts as Pabst Blue Ribbon. But what diners are not aware of, the Skylark Burger has properties similar to a quadruple shot latte. That is, after you pound down this burger sleep will avoid you like good breath.

As recently as last evening one Skylark patron learned this lesson the hard way. Satisfied with his meal the man paid and retired to his bed where sleep overtook him almost immediately. Alas, it was but a cruel tease. For he woke soon thereafter with frothy entrails and stayed awake for the next three hours. It was not that the Skylark burger was bad, it was just that it was not designed for mere mortal digestive systems.

The upside of this late night consciousness was that the patron had much time to contemplate the state of his life, and consider the myriad areas where improvements might be made. Additionally, the Skylark burger seems to have mild mystical qualities, as the patron in question can attest. For when he did finally assume a state of unconsciousness, the dream he had was vivid, frightening and ultimately deep.

If you look for a restless night of contemplation and wild dreams, try the Skylark Burger with the tater tots. A groggy morning is assured, but enlightenment may also be found before the first flutter of predawn birds who,

"Like a Poet hidden

In the light of thought,

Singing hymns unbidden,

Till the world is wrought

To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not.' (P.B. Shelley) ###