(Returned recently from Devon where they eat the bloody thing upside-down)

Can any treat make me a more content man

Than clotted cream, scone and blackcurrant jam?

At mid-afternoon on a fine English day

With a steaming hot teapot of Twinings Earl Grey.

Along with young women a Cornishman’s dream

Is spun round Free Kernow and fresh clotted cream;

He’ll hark back to days when he was half-grown

To the smell from the oven of Gran’s fresh-baked scones;

Then juggling a hot one he’d pinch it and scram

And lather it richly with blackcurrant jam,

Not strawberry or raspberry would ever it be

But blackcurrant swilled with a saucer of tea.

Can any treat make me a more content man

Than clotted cream, scone and blackcurrant jam?