I wake up before sunrise,
A smell in my room makes me open my eyes.
After days of travel, walking and toil
My soup, it seems, has begun to spoil.
Clearly, I say, something must be done
For the soup's wrath has only just begun.
But there is in my room no safe, bucket, nor casket,
No, nothing at all resembling a wastebasket.
And though the streets of Puno are filled with fabric, fur, and flan,
I've seen nothing at all resembling a trash can.
"Well," I say, sitting down to regroup,
"How in hell can I get rid of my soup."
Being proactive, I leave at first light,
Roaming the streets for a solution to my plight.
But search as I might, I find nothing but pain.
Well, that, and a steadily downpouring rain.
Yet I continue my search, though I am in a slump,
seeking a sewer in which my soup I can dump.
By now, others have taken to the streets,
No doubt trying to perform some similar feats.
I think to myself, "My god, this is dumb,"
And turn my thoughts to chewing a stick of mint gum.
But I still have no luck as an intrepid gum chewer,
No, I can't find one measly trash can, drain, or sewer.
By now, the soup's really starting to smell,
And my hopes, too, aren't doing so well.
And while the rainwater cascades down the street in a manner quite heinous,
I, Alex Hornstein, have a thought quite ingeinous.
"Aha!" I say, "I'll do what I oughter-
To find a sewer, I'll just follow the water."
So I head downhill for a mile or home,
But no sewer solution comes to knock on my door.
By now, the runoff from many streets had merg-ed
Forming in the road a river quite turgid.
Now, I was tired, my patience at an end.
I had to do something to send my soup 'round the bend.
Finally, I hit upon a solution quite neat,
and I surreptitiously dumped the soup in the river at my feet.
My soup drifted off, its journey just begun,
and I returned to my bed, the job well done.