Milieu

I met three old men in a milieu. 

I ask: did you get your meals?

The first said: mettle.   

The second said: miles to go.

The third said: mill on it.

I say: mirable dictu to you too!

One pipes: get a job.

Another quandaries. 

The third says: think of Bob,

as in 'What about Bob?'

I say of Job, he didn't quit;

nor did he spit upon the name,

but rose from ashen to fame.

Someone states: tarry a little.

I reply: 'neither jot nor tittle' and

whoever can break this riddle,

trees be watered with his spittle!

Maybe more; maybe less to test:

big oil must be put to rest lest

a murky wave crest upon cysts 

of child barren women on a list.

A twisted and gnarled wrist 

should lend a gist to the pissed-

off seated, old men and reality!