Saturday morning, headache pounds,
With a thousand fags and late night rounds,
From out the window a life giving breeze,
Brings the smell of eggs and bacon and cheese.

All the above, with lashings of sauce,
And the weekend might just take a pleasant course,
Follow the scent, find the venue,
Throw open the door, look at the menu…and…

What the fuck.

Sparrow’s eggs with flourless bread,
Poached in squid ink on a watercress bed,
A bacon crisp, and tomato foam,
Served with an ironic garden gnome.

It’s Tuesday evening, rain smashing down,
Job is shit, girl’s out of town,
Head from work and straight down the pub,
For some honest, hearty, home cooked grub.

Shepherds pie, sausage and mash,
Steak and fries, corned beef hash,
Order a pint and while it’s poured,
Take a minute to look at the board…and…

What the fuck.

A salad of fragrant buttercup petals,
Dressed with foraged stinging nettles,
Butterfly wings and road-kill mousse,
Pomegranate seeds and snail juice.

Sun baked tail of grass fed lamb,
Glazed with pickled gherkin jam,
Chips cooked 27 times,
Wilted leaves and candied limes.

Don’t get me wrong, I love to be faced,
With a weird and wonderful dish to taste,
It’s just that there’s a time and a place,
And sometimes a man wants to stuff his face.

This farty fancy food invasion,
Is not for every meal occasion,
So take your rosti and sea bass lips,
And bring be some old fashioned fish and chips!