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.)
Posted by Frances Garrood at 14:43
Labels: bad poetry, pork pies
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Frances - this is excellent! Love it and love pork pies.ReplyDelete
Multi-talented my friend - that's what you are!
You've convinced me - I'll avoid limp lettuce when I eat my next pork pie. (Branston and sun ripened tomatoes are a much better accompaniment)ReplyDelete
Anna, you're too kind! If only...ReplyDelete
Hi, Patsy - when I come to think of it, it sounds like one of those ridiculous "serving suggestions" on the sides of tins of corned beef. You know the kind of thing. A picture of a slice of corned beef and a lettuce leaf (just in case you hadn't thought of that yourself). Branston and tomatoes...now you're talking!
I love a pork pie = thanks for reminding me of that. I'm going to pick one up later as a traet.ReplyDelete