THE FIRST TAKEOUT

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
Invite a young Italian mahn
Into his gleaming summer palace
And proved he bore no hint of malice
Unlike that century’s Japanese
Who treated strangers as disease.
"Welcome to Mongolia,
Where, as in sunny Italia,
We honor visitors from abroad
In proof we’re not a mongrel horde."
His guest was Venice’s Marco Polo,
Traveler extraordinaire and solo.
"I think I’ve found a home away
From home," M.P. was glad to say.
Indeed, it was the start of a stay
That lasted twenty years to a day.
But homesickness must have its sway
So  finally he sailed away.
However, the monarch Khan made sure
He left with a present from the store.
"Take gems or gunpowder, whatever,
As sign our friendship will never sever,”
K.K. told his Venetian amico.
(Who’d later settle in Puerto Rico).
"I’ve loved your cuisine so very much
That what I’ll ask for–just a touch–
Is a dish of your  exquisite lo mein,
Khan’s gift to belly and to brain."
And so he set sail with a plastico
Bag that held a prize fantastico.
The lo mein remained fresh and warm
Till he reached home—and would transform
Italian cooking through and through,
Both for the many and the
few.
Potatoes no longer headed the roster—
The king of cuisine became now  pasta.
But what to call the Chinese takeout?
Before he reached the final shakeout
M.P. tried many a different name,
But all turned out to sound too tame.
And that is when he remembered his roots
And the tree that bore his family fruits.
Marco, you see, had been
born Moishe Pippik,
Near the banks of the winding River Glippik,
In the  ghetto of his city-state
Set off by boundaries of hate.
So by dint of remembrance and of sweat, oh,
He called the novel noodle–spaghetto!
Much later, confusion with confetti
Caused a rechristening to spaghetti.
Repaying his service, the Doge (the boss)
Supplied a lifetime of tomato sauce.
Next time, good neighbor, you order takeout,
Please credit Marco for his breakout.