THIS IS WHAT I LIKE.

I like the icing on the cupcake but not the sponge,

I like the icing on the gem but not the biscuit,

I like the icing on the fruit cake and even the marzipan but never the fruit, I said never the fruit, never the sultanas, never the raisins, never the fruit implied, else it’s cake denied,

I like the yellow coating on the battenberg but never the fluffy sponge squares,

And they always, ALWAYS, insist on catching me unawares,

I like doughnuts with the hole in and never the jam, it’s not even proper jam, it’s a bleeding imposter, it’s a sham-jam,

I like the top bit on French Fancies but not the rest,

I like the middle of custard creams but not the top or bottom, and it doesn’t matter how much you argue, it’s not a chocolate bourbon,

I like burgers but not with sliced guerkins, they taste of twig, I’d rather eat a murkin, I can’t believe of all the words to rhyme with guerkin I chose a pubic wig,

I like marmalade but only if it’s shredless,

I like orange juice without the pulp and milk without the cow,

And lastly I’d like to dedicate this list of likes to anyone who hates peanut butter.

The Dairy Patient

I knew a guy, he was 6ft tall
He called himself ‘the messiah’
He was scared of chicken & geese
He liked the taste of fire
He kept his brain in a breadbin
I’ll toast his loaf if he comes too close
Just stick me back where I came from
I’ll do my best to deny all tracks

I touched his face with a cow prod
His head was made of cheese and milk
He lived his life in a kitchen
Money for butter as smooth as silk
He sold himself as a dairy product
Pimping his udders on the street for cash
His eggs were tainted with bad love
He wished for more but screamed for less
His destiny lies in the hand of an evil oven glove
A life in bits in the yoghurt of distress

Invisible Bus Journey

The old lady shook as she gripped the pole on the bus,

The little boy stared and stared with the ignorance he’d been given,

No-one helped her, no-one seemed to care,

Except the lady in the socks with the pink stripe, that matched the pink stripes in her trainers,

Who kept holding out her arm, each time the old lady trembled and lost her footing,

As if to say “I’ve got your back, don’t worry”

The old lady didn’t see, but it didn’t matter, that hand, that invisible gesture, spoke volumes that day,

As to what kind of person the woman in the pink stripes was,

Amazing what you can pick up on the way to town on the bus.