(An old poem: from around 1999)
Do you want to be a vegetable,
or a pineapple chunk?
Would you like to be a rotten grape,
continually drunk?
Or if you wander in the woods
and eat the fungus balls
Does that mean that you’re a spore
infinitesimally small?
My mother likes a bit of fish
all soft in crispy batter
now when it’s raining cats and dogs
she says it doesn’t matter.
Sometimes on a Saturday
my brother eats lamb curry
I think his face has started
to go all white and furry.
If it’s true and we’re our food
don’t you think it’s time
to serve up David Beckham
Posh Spiced, with sage and Thyme
Or maybe we will tuck into
Catherine Zeta-Jones
On a bed of Holly Wood
Be careful of the bones