Seuss-enthusiasts have heard whispers for many years of the fabled sequel to Green Eggs and Ham, one of the Doctor’s most well-known books. I have recently obtained, through my many contacts in the publishing underworld, a electronic copy of this mystical book. After much examination, I have determined that if this is not truly a Seussian work, then it is an amazingly good counterfeit.
Perhaps in time I will have permission to publish pictures from the manuscript, but for now I feel safe only in relating a few broad strokes of the plot itself. This, I am sure, will be sufficient to hold off all but the most voracious fans for the time being.
The book opens some time after the events of Green Eggs and Ham, and the creature who discovered that he could eat green eggs and ham on a train or in the rain continues to sing the praises of Sam-I-Am and the miraculously delicious food he provides. The creature has even exchanged his black hat for a green one. Nameless still, as in the original tale, he walks to and fro, taking Sam-I-Am’s job upon himself. When others refuse to taste green eggs and ham, he has still more fervent words than his mentor, and many are won over to the tasty goodness of the emerald meal.
But not everyone likes green eggs and ham. Indeed, there is one fierce-looking monster with tusks and three heads that thrice tastes the meal at the Nameless Creature’s insistence and thrice decries the meal as unsavory. The Nameless Creature lambasts him. “Will you choke on it in the dark? In the park? Will you gag upon green eggs and ham? How aghast, how agape I am!”
But the three-headed monstrosity will not relent, and the Nameless Creature, enraged, hurries to tell the other egg-and-hammy converts of his distress. “Triple-headed Mel refused green eggs and ham! He spit them out! He asked for bread and jam! We cannot let this Mel remain! Not in his cave, not on the plain! Out, out–he must go away. This fiendish fiend must not stay!”
In a battle of such chaos and whimsy as only 4-colored Seuss panels can depict, the monster is driven out by the hordes of Sam-I-Amites.
In the aftermath of this success, the Nameless Creature begins to impose strict dietary laws upon the people. “Green eggs and ham three times a day, before work and after play. Green eggs and ham for every meal. No more bagels and no more veal.”
The land becomes bleak and green, the Nameless Creature’s shock troops patrolling every kitchen and cafe. (A nice touch is the use of Sam-I-Am’s serving tray as the model for the troops’ shields.) The Nameless Creature rules supreme in his castle, his green hat studded with green jewels.
Then enters Sam-I-Am, who has been absent since the book’s start. He approaches the Nameless Creature in his cheery, fearless manner–but a hint of stern reproach is in his voice. He calls his disciple to task for his harsh and unyielding methods. “I do not live on green eggs and ham alone. I eat soup and kale and pie and pumpkin scone. Why is there nothing but ham and green eggs? Do you have enough round holes for all these square pegs?”
Truth be told, Sam-I-Am’s lecture, which lasts eight pages, is overlong and pedantic, the rhythm rough, sometimes entering into free verse. This, perhaps, is the reason the book was never published. Still, there is a certain bold artistry in it, almost as if Sam-I-Am is appealing to all the poetic muses of the centuries to help him. And after Sam-I-Am’s long plea for meal-planning balance and an understanding of others’ tastes, the Nameless Creature says, simply: “Do you not like my green eggs and ham?”
“I do not like them,” replies Sam-I-Am.
Then, in stark tones of black and green, the Nameless Creature gives the signal.
The next page reveals the Nameless Creature all alone in his throne room. It is dark. And he says, softly, sadly, “Oh, Sam-I-Am, Sam-I-Am! That you’d never offered me green eggs and ham!”
And upon the table, upon the platter, is Sam-I-Am’s head.
I cannot share more without legal repercussions.
The book has no title, and I am not bold enough to offer one. I have heard rumors of Green Eggs and Hamelot, but I think the reference to Camelot is too flippant, even if meant ironically.
Hopefully, in the future I can reveal full pages from this lost masterpiece–and I do not think it wrong to call it a masterpiece. With its exquisite, mature rhyme, emotionally charged illustrations, and clever Seussian allegory, it is, despite any flaws, to be placed among the great works of literature.