It’s all a question of choice,
cakes and ale, melting moments.
Shall we choose tarts or maids of
honour,
angels on horseback or devilled
crabs?
Shall we date cookies,
waffle and fudge?
Shall we have warm rolls with
honey,
Eve’s pudding and Adam’s ale,
sugar and spice
and all things nice,
ginger and pepper and capers?
Or shall we go in for fairy cakes,
Queen of puddings,
soft tongues and cream puffs?
Maybe we’ll choose a rich fruit
fool,
with rolls of soft and ginger
bread,
whisk away in a froth
of Viennese whirls,
Madeira sauce,
Genoese fancies,
and almond coffee kisses?
Something stronger?
Then who’s for plump stuffed cod,
and roly-poly pudding,
spotted dick,
and hot, hot buttered tripe?
It’s all game, all in season,
a mixed grill;
a sweet and sour sauce,
with crumbs and corn and fritters
-
for some, club sandwiches,
college pudding, cabinet pudding,
sober, hidebound, square,
ignoring all the cross-scored
hearts,
the scrag-end and the offal,
the empty shells baked blind
and the shaking marrow-bone jelly,
the cold, cold desserts.
We all get our desserts;
it’s only a question of choice.
Are you ready to order now?
(November,
1986)
