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Cold Meat

I had Toulouse my little sausage

From the Parma of my hand

My Mortadella’s got a new fella

Plays bass in a rock and roll band


She prefers his chipolata

He’s got Bellotta charms

And he’s carried off my baby

In his hairy, ham-like arms


Though his prosciutto’s strictly crudo

And he lacks any social grace

She’s Salsiccia of me

So she’s moved in to his place


I need her back so badly

Heart and Bresaola! Hear my voice

It’s a case of him or salami

And she’s my Chorizo of choice


I’ll always carry a Torchon for her

But fuet, I’m paying the price

I’m Sobrasada and lonely

Now I’m no longer her premium slice


She’s made her Boudin and she’ll lie in it

Andouillette, she was my first 

His pancetta is no better


Lost love is the wurst.


◄ An Old Etonian’s advice to his son

The Tough Gig ►


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John Coopey

Mon 11th Dec 2023 20:50

Nice pizza poetry.

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R A Porter

Mon 11th Dec 2023 18:46

Thanks MC, I have a friend who does a marvellous Kenneth Williams impression in the pub - just saying “I know” in that voice is enough!

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M.C. Newberry

Mon 11th Dec 2023 17:40

Someone's cookbook must be well-thumbed! Another welcome piece of creative fun from this source. I can just imagine Kenneth Williams reciting this!

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R A Porter

Mon 11th Dec 2023 09:44

Thanks Graham, glad you enjoyed it! - on revisiting, I think the feckless one who stole the saucisson away should be a drummer - they have much bigger ham-like arms than bassists!

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Graham Sherwood

Mon 11th Dec 2023 09:23

It sounds like you're "gonna be poloni, this Christmas" RA.
A very clever piece, well done, G

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