How to make a mean Num Banh Chok.
Koh Rong-side of the tracks cuisine with a derelict spin.
Row forth the vo lai, your slender vessel,
Made of mixed tinder washed upon the shore.
Eyes bespeckled on the bow as a warning the boogie,
To not fuck with “Mae” while she rides to Dat Mui.
Preheat a ramshackle propane tank dented like a ping-pong ball.
Lean it on the wall. Pray it doesn't reduce the estate.
Only way to level it though sand and root: base in a milk crate.
Objet trouvée, was that your country? Too late.
That's what I call French fusion. Along they came and changed your namesake.
Light the monsoon menorah. Trust it. Bic a B-52: Tin roof, rusted.
Wok down ten generations, stickier than picture house floors.
While the heat rises, upper decker the toilet tank with six Klangs.
Bum-gun the sand off each silver can.
One whole mud fish, toss up tilapia.
Whichever you can catch with both hands.
My bowl is not a home for deep sea denizen,
So pick me a winner from the delta vendors
And master a masala that goes well with the swatches.
FedEx a spark while Wilson watches.
Two whole chicken bones, one cup kroeung.
Ten long finger-licking rhizome tubes.
Roots to the equation.
I can tell what you’re thinking:
"Don’t expect me to learn while I'm on vacation."
Did I mention the dogs?
They’re here to watch.
Leaping out the bush like twists on Lost.
One serving concrete palmistry
Launch it at the mutt’s roan-colored haunch meat.
Pelt it, the pooch will make a marvelous mink.
PETA heard the impact
Sounded like a ding-ding.
Sihanoukville slot machines mimicking
Welcome to Flavortown’s rundown streets,
An in an instant, your taste buds will start to excrete.
You’re beginning to understand what ‘Cambodian’ means.
If you didn't follow the steps
If you didn’t make the Num Banh,
At least you’re now numb to the sight of a dead dog.