Party Food

The food was piled in paper bowls;

Some sandwiches, some sausage rolls,

Some biscuits iced a lurid pink,

And in the cups some fizzy drink.

Some chocolate cakes, some crisps, some chips,

And all the children licked their lips

As Lulu’s Dad, with one huge grin,

Said ‘Come on quickly kids, tuck in!

Then someone at the party spoke:

‘He’d rather have an artichoke’.

 

A dozen heads all whipped around

To see who’d made that fateful sound,

And saw one mum, devoid of fun,

Stand jabbing at her infant son,

And yelling (as her teeth went gnash)

‘NO CHILD OF MINE WILL EAT THIS TRASH!

He’s keen on quinoa, grown by hand

In some exotic foreign land,

And fertilized, I’m almost sure,

By fresh organic yak manure.

His rice must all be Nepalese.

He won’t agree to eat his cheese

Unless it comes from buffaloes

Who win in agricultural shows.

His vegetables must all be raw

(He’s fond of mayonnaise-less slaw)

And only sourdough bread will do,

The kind that takes ten years to chew.

He’s most polite of course, although,

If faced with trash, he will say no.

 

 

 

He will not eat this junk, so there!’

And then she looked; his plate was bare,

And all he did was stare awhile,

His mouth curled up in sated smile,

Then said, with one enormous burp:

‘Oh shut up Mum, you great big twerp’.