From Frinton-on-Sea to the Bay of Bengal
There's places to terrify, shock and appall
But my mother's kitchen's the worst place of all
It frightens the strongest of men
For over the doorway, these words you can trace:
"Abandon hope, all ye who enter this place
And don't put the food anywhere near your face
If you want to see daylight again!"
A friend from my youth (may his stature increase)
Who married a girl from the local police
Was caught in the act of consuming a piece of
My mother's bread pudding he'd found.
My father went pale, he said: "Tony, you prat!
For God's sake sit down if you want to eat that
Or your rectum will plummet in nought seconds flat
And you'll drag it along on the ground!"
I've travelled the world, my research is complete
And I've rarely found anything I couldn't eat
From witchety grubs to yak's testicle meat
And cannabis cooked in a cake
But, seeking out fresh epicurean thrills
I sometimes go terribly green round the gills
And these little words make me head for the hills:
"It's just like your Mum used to make!"
Will Hames
March 2010
2 comments:
My mother had several great qualities, but an ability to cook was not one of them. She was to the culinary arts what Vlad the Impaler was to proctology. I want to celebrate her life in verse, without departing from the truth: her cooking really WAS that bad.
Brilliant! I loved this, thankyou! PS: The WV for this comment was, curiously, catoill! I wasn't sure whether this was genuine, or whether it was simply a reminder.
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