Wednesday, 11 May 2011
To a pork pie
Round, succulent, redolent of the deceased
Pig which gave it life.
Porcine pink, fat-flecked and fattening,
Crisp crust encased, celophane wrapped,
Seven hundred calories a serving.
Precious pig, you died for this,
Served on a leaf of limpest lettuce.
It's enough to make you
(Since this started as a literary blog, the occasional poem is only to be expected. As to the poem itself, I must have written it a very long time ago. It was lurking at the back of a cupboard, so I thought I'd give it an airing. Now you can see why I write novels.)