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Division of Labor (poem)

By W. D. Ehrhart

Back in the war, I lived for 13 months
on canned C-rats. Messhall food,
even when you could get it, always
left you with Ho Chi Minh's revenge.

Canned stuff was always a better bet.
I learned to work miracles with ham
& mothers, SeaBee scallions, a little
Louisiana Red Rooster Hot Sauce.

I could cut those little canned loaves
of bread into eight thin slices, make
four sandwiches with the little cans
of pork steak, ham steak, or beef steak.

I was never much of a cook;
my specialty: camper's delight;
ground beef, frozen corn, baked beans
tossed into a saucepan and heated,

though I also managed okay with eggs
and a frying pan. I never starved
when I lived on my own, though I
often relied on the kindness of friends

who would ask me to dinner now
and then, feeling sorry for me.
The woman I married tired quickly
of camper's delight and fried eggs

and learned, of necessity, how to cook.
She's long since become pretty good
in the kitchen, and in forty-four years
I've washed a lot of dishes.

—W. D. Ehrhart