The French are really rather rude

When talking about British food.

They cannot help but be quite mean

When it comes to tasting our cuisine.

They mock our beef with roasted spuds,

Our gravy soaking Yorkshire puds:

Swear vinegar on fish and chips

Would never make it past their lips

They claim the British high cream tea

Can’t match French haute pattiserie

In th...

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Porridge

In the morning

make sure I calculate

precise,

Flat packet grains compress

into calibrated measure,

To be levelled

then dispensed,

With milk added to twice the degree,

Stirred,

Placed in microwave,

A minute of vibrational rotation.

Stirred,

Returned for half the spell of time.

Withdrawn,

Stirred.

Seed topping on the milky mass,

Insalt...

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His name is Jeff.  He’s a chef.

How can you tell?  By his trousers of course.

When he puts on those checky trousers he’s no longer just Jeff,

But, Jeffry, like his Mam used to scream, making herself hoarse

At his idleness, lethargy, laziness, now all in the past

Since a chef he’s become, even though it’s self-classed.

Doesn’t wear one of them tall ‘ats though.

He tried on...

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