Food for Thought

I once met a man with a Cumberland sausage

who liked a lady with Yorkshire puddings.

She had a friend who was a right Lancashire Hotpot.

This friend fancied a man with Brighton rock

(although his packet of butter had become a soft block).

He pined after a man from Eccles

who had a flaky face and freckles.

This man had a friend who used food-related language,

but for whose sake? He loved the Earl of Sandwich.

‘A trip to see the Earl’s Grave?’ he’d say.

‘That’d be Kendle Mint Cake!’

This man’s friend’s lover was called Patsy,

Cornish by birth –

apparently she liked hers with extra girth.

Her friend, Eclaire, had chocolate hair

and she’d always make a mess –

cake, ice-cream, Snickers: 
she stained her school prom dress.

She danced at this prom with a boy from Stains

(the food references stop here, I’m afraid).

This boy’s older brother was giving the shaft

to an Oxbridge girl, her bony knees like a calf's.

A political prodigy, the Coalition picked her up.

An awful mission, she did nothing but stress;

she thought, What’s the point? What the fuck?

I tell you, this country's a right bloody Eton Mess.