Back from Shopping

 

Written for Paul Brookes' ekphrastic challenge - one poem a day in April 2021. 

 

The art work for this day is "Back from Shopping" by John Law, and "Badger" by Kerfe Roig

 

Back from Shopping

This 'ill gets steeper every year!

Ya not wrong, Joan!
A pause to catch their breath, then
Ooh, guess who's died!
Who?

Well, I'm asking you!
Well, we don't know. You tell us!

Ooh, ya no fun these days, Maureen.
All right, that old bloke with the dog. Who sits outside the shops.
A pregnant pause.

We've just seen 'im, Maureen. You said hello!
Ooh, so I did. I'm losin' mi marbles, like mi mam did.
You two are 'opeless. Let's get goin', I've got to get our Charlotte 'ome
Tell 'em about that thing, nan! In the garden.
Ooh, yes. You'll never guess what worrin ar garden last neet. 

Dunno - a Peepin' Tom?
All three ladies laugh.
What's a peepintom, nan?

Never you mind, luv. No, it worra badger. A big 'un.
Ooh, I don't like them. Big things. Don't like 'em being killed, though.
No. 

No. 

They stop for breath and Joan lights a fag. 

Joan, who was it?
Who was what?
Who died?

Another pause and exhale of smoke. 

Dunno, can't remember now. 

 

Tim Fellows 2021

 

In the Bleak Midwicket

This is a nonsense poem that starts with the well know verses written by Christina Rossetti in 1872. 

You then take all the nouns, pick your favourite dictionary and the then substitute the nouns with a nearby one. In this case I took the first one and found the best substitute, which was 2 nouns before "midwinter". I then did the same substitution with the other nouns. Except one, which would have rendered the poem horribly racist, so I used a different one.  

Thanks to Claire Crossdale for the idea. 

This is Rossetti, looking unamused by the butchery of her work.

In the Bleak Midwicket

after Christina Rossetti

 

In the bleak midwicket, frosty wincey made mnemonic,

Earplugs stood hard as Irish stew, watch-tower like a stomach;

Snot had fallen, snot on snot, snot on snot,

In the bleak midwicket, long ago.

Our Goby, heat shields cannot hold him, nor earplug sustain;

Heat shield and earplug shall flee away when He comes to reign.

In the bleak midwicket a stabilizer sufficed

The Loot Goby Almighty, Jester Chow.

Enough for Him, whom cheroots, worship niggle and dawn,

Breakwaterful of military police, and a manglewurzelful of hawser;

Enough for Him, whom anemones fall before,

The own goals and aspirators and camcorders which adore.

 

Anemones and archaeopteryx may have gathered there,

Cheroots and sequoia thronged the aileron;

But His motel only, in her maiden blinker,

Worshipped the belly-laugh with a kirsch.

 

What can I give Him, poor as I am?

If I were a shemozzle, I would bring a lama;

If I were a Wise Mammogram, I would do my parsonage;

Yet what I can I give Him: give my hearing-aid.

 

Tim Fellows 2021

12 Poems of Christmas

 

In December 2019 I set myself a challenge to write a poem a day, starting on Christmas Day, for 12 days where each day was a poem based on the gift for that day of the 12 Days of Christmas song.

I did it, and was largely pleased with the results. I had managed a villanelle, rhymed and unrhymed poems, comedy, misery (obviously), love, and incorporated some personal memories. I made small edits on some of them but something was bugging me. The Milkmaids poem from day 8. Not good enough, no matter what I did with it. So, I never properly published them, although I put out the drafts on my facebook page and have read some of them at Open Mic events.  

Finally, a year later, the replacement poem came to me. I appreciate that it breaks the challenge to an extent, but I think the other 11 poems deserve an outing and the original Milkmaids poem has gone to the dusty "Unpublished" folder.

12 Poems of Christmas Challenge

25th December - Partridge in a Pear Tree

The Pear Tree

He remembers (or maybe it's a dream)
climbing the weathered rungs
up the pear tree.
His mother, in a panic, getting him
down, removing the ladder,
feeling a splinter in her finger. Squeezing
out a tiny drop of blood.

Standing, looking into the tree
at bulbous fruit loaded with summer rain.
Golden, hiding among the whispering leaves.
He reaches, one hand, then two. The pears
are beyond him. He sits, hoping for windfall.

There are birds in the tree, free to come
and go, to take the fruit. He squints
at their shimmering shapes,
frowns at their mocking calls.
Touches the scratchy bark, his skin on wood
much older than he. It consoled him,
told him that things are as they are
for a reason.  

Tim Fellows December 25th 2019
 
26th December - Two Turtle Doves

Turtle Doves

The first arrived on a Wednesday,
finding its home in the old oak
at the bottom of my garden.

It made the "turr", "turr" sound
that gave it its name, flitting
from tree to ground, feeding.

It was not long before the second
came, the mate, paired for life.
I knew better than to get too close,

to scare them away. I watched
as they performed their rituals
while summer warmed and faded.

Then one day, they were gone,
to run the gauntlet of guns
on their long path to the sun.

I wondered if they would ever
come back or whether, like you,
they had simply flown.

Tim Fellows December 26th 2019

27th December -Three French Hens

Three French Hens

Florence, Mathilde and Juliette
in a Weatherspoons in Leeds
where they weren't exactly certain
as to what they had agreed

They're wearing deely boppers
and plastic fairy wings
and Juliette's nervously twirling
her engagement ring

She's the one wearing the "Bride" sash
she's going to marry Dave
they're going to live in Harrogate
he's told her to behave

on this classic British pub crawl
the hen party from hell
Mathilde's had one too many
she's not feeling very well.

It's December up in Yorkshire
it's freezing cold outside
yet English girls who have joined them
just take it in their stride

From pub to pub, from bar to bar
with voices ever louder
it's a truly foreign land and the
jokes are getting lewder

They finally lose the English girls
somewhere on Otley Road
and fall into a taxi
a relieved Gallic carload

Her friends are saying au revoir
at the airport the next day
They didn't fancy driving
on the crossing from Calais

They've seen some British culture
they never thought they'd see
but they're happy to be going back
to their life in gay Paris

Tim Fellows December 27th 2019

28th December - Four Colly Birds

The Colly Bird

The colly bird opens its throat and sings
It spreads out its feathers on coaly wings
The bird that will sing for queens and for kings
Sings loud for you today

The colly bird flies from tree to tree
It flys so high, how it loves to be free
I watch it soar, but I can never be
By your sweet side today 

The colly bird taps with its yellow beak
A tune where love deserts the soft and meek
I know that I have lost my chance to speak
My love for you today

Tim Fellows December 28th 2019

29th December - Five Gold Rings

Five Weddings, Two Funerals and an Electrician

The first one's name was Maureen
in nineteen seventy four
we got hitched in Cleethorpes
we were happy, though we were poor.

One day I got a phone call
They said "We're sad to tell
you that there's been an accident"
the next weeks and months were hell.

The second time was two years on
It happened very fast
We were married in Barbados
we really had a blast

for four months - or was it five? -
until I caught her in our bed
with Jim the electrician
so marriage two was dead.

So I said goodbye to Sharon
I've not seen her since that day
but it was only a year or so later
when I re-joined the fray.

Jane was a practical woman,
divorcee with kids in tow
We had fifteen good years -
was it love? Well I suppose so

because I cried the day she told
me that the cancer had come back
and I cried when we stood around
the grave, all dressed in black.

If you think it's been bumpy
up to then, well number four
was the worst of all these women-
if I'd known what was in store

I never would have wed her,
I so regret it still
For Helen saw my money
then my bank account was nil.

You'd think that I'd be finished
no more wedding bells for me
but I still had happy memories
of spouses one and three

So now I'm happily married
for the fifth time, I'm well set.
Her name's Matika, we're in Thailand
all thanks to the Internet.

Tim Fellows December 29th 2019

30th December -Six Geese A Laying

Geese

The geese that lay across the path
looked bored, but others, strutting
as if they knew they owned this gaff

left runners with their certain footing
in no doubt about their likely fate
if they dared to step too near

so they, berthed wide, went off-straight
and left the geese to honk and cheer.
Meanwhile, in soft grey winter skies

a perfect vee of northbound birds
called instructions from on high
"Join us, join us" - such deceptive words.

Tim Fellows December 30th 2019

31st December - Seven Swans a Swimming

Swan Lake Memories

There were seven swans
on the lake that day.
One, head down, tail up,
feeding in the mud
while we, your hand slipped
into mine, laughed
at the thought that it was mooning
us. Cygnets,
grey-brown balls of fluff,
resting on their mother's back.
A first-time kiss and other thoughts
of future broods.

Sitting in this comfy chair
I see, in not quite real-life,
the white birds, now what are they?
A thing inside is nagging me
and, clear as day, I see a girl
giggling at an upturned bird,
and hear the sounds
and smell the Spring.
She looks a little like
the woman who looks after me,
makes drinks
and gives me pills to take.

She comes in with a mug of tea
and I gesture wordlessly
towards the screen and she
says Swans. I sigh, of course,
I should have known.
They're important! I reply
and a small smile flits across her face.
Yes, they are and she looks sad
but another word is better;
melon?, melony?
It shows the birds are flying now,
I don't know where, oh
those white birds, what are they?

Tim Fellows December 31st 2019

1st January - Eight Maids a Milking

The Milk Maid 

She squats on the short stool, hands
moving rhythmically, automatically,
while her thoughts rise beyond this shed

to a dreamland where she can never live.
Where she and the beasts she loves
are free. She leans into the heavy flank

and feels the rough hide on her cheek,
closes her eyes and imagines the coursing
blood inside. The cow shifts slightly

and its low call vibrates their bodies.
She listens to the milk splashing into the pail,
knowing it should have been for a calf

and thinks of the child that she never had.

Tim Fellows January 1st 2021

2nd January - Nine Ladies Dancing

The Tea Dance

The "Ladies Only" Tea Dance
was already underway
when Joan and Betty entered
and watched the women sway.

Joan and Betty held their pose
for foxtrot, waltz and jive
Around the floor they heeled and toed
it made them feel alive.

Some of them had learned to lead
and others to be led.
They were all dressed up to the nines
but danced in secret dread

that one day there'd be whistles,
and shouts of "It's a raid!"
They'd be led away in handcuffs
the price that would be paid

for the unjust laws that stopped them
and punished them back then
for just being women with women
and men being with men.

It was only when they got home
to their cottage by the sea
that they could hold each other
the way their love said they should be.

Tim Fellows January 2nd 2020

3rd January -Ten Lords a Leaping

Hunt

Here they come,
hard hats and hearts;
hurrahing and harumphing,
hurdling high hedges.
Hark! their horns,
hot and hungry hounds
hysterically howling.

The hunted hobbles
to its hole, a home,
a helpless haven,
hardly hiding.

Hating, haunting,
heavy guffawing,
historic houses a
human Heaven
hosting bloody Hell.

Tim Fellows January 3rd 2020

4th January - Eleven Pipers Piping

He Who Pays

It's like some kind of nightmarish cartoon
where Orwell seems to be right on the mark
and he who pays the piper calls the tune.

He has this image of a dumb buffoon
who lets slip the occasional remark.
It's like some kind of nightmarish cartoon.

He takes a hatchet and he starts to prune,
the flood will come but he'll be on the ark;
the one who pays the piper calls the tune.

It may be that I'm howling at the moon;
the world's gone mad, may I just disembark?
It's like some kind of nightmarish cartoon.

And, all around, his enemies are strewn;
ambition leaves them fumbling in the dark.
The one who pays the piper calls the tune. 

Is there a chance this horror will end soon?
We're sinking in a pool that's full of sharks.
It's like some kind of nightmarish cartoon
where they who pay the piper call the tune. 

Tim Fellows January 4th 2020

5th January - Twelve Drummers Drumming

Twelve Drummers Drumming

Fitzgibbon, Moon, Starr and Bonham,
Stewart, Taylor, Baker, Rich,
Weinberg, Copeland, Peart and Watts
beating rhythm with their sticks.

Getting on their neighbours' wicks.

Tim Fellows January 5th 2020

Image by Xavier Romero-Frias, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Season's Greetings

It's that time of year; when I publish my cheery Christmas poem. 

Season's Greetings

Hark, the postman's at the door!
Cards fall on the hallway floor
Sent by people we don't see
from January to January.

Wise old Magi, magic star,
red breasted birds - sent from far
and wide - and now the date
has passed to send one back! Too late.

We forgot our Joan and Bill, but still
we were never going in their will.

Tim Fellows December 2020

Image by Jenny Nguyen from Pixabay

Bloody Weather

There is a follow-on poem to this - published here.....

Bloody Weather

It's that fine rain,

the kind that soaks you through

says Peter, in my head.

I'm unprepared. Unwilling to run

on cobbles preserved

as quaint relief from modernity.

As the rain quickens

they glisten with a mischievous twinkle

that conflicts with a sky

obscured by grey wrapping.

Lights from an empty shop

illuminate bored assistants.

The doorways offer limited cover

and my mood spirals as I

remember the spare raincoat

I keep in the boot of the car

for these occasions.

Distracted, I step

in a puddle, the dirty water

gleefully finding the gap

between shoe and sock.

No market today, which

is for the best perhaps.

The stalls look sad,

quiet and unloved.

Water cascades from their

coloured roofs and

I can feel it running down my neck.

There's a pub - bugger it,

I'm going in. Bloody weather.

Tim Fellows 2020

Image by djedj from Pixabay

It Comes To Us All

Getting old - it sucks.


It Comes To Us All

Today I got a present
Something I could wear
It felt quite soft and comfy
I opened it with care

But when my eyes fell on it
It just revealed my age
It was a v-neck jumper
the colour - it was beige

So perhaps I need some slippers
and a hat for when it's cold
Or those other things you acquire
When you're getting very old

But you don't know where you put them

can't find your reading specs

and other things you've forgotten 

like the last time you had sex

And your pate has long since baldened

and the remaining hair is grey

and you stare at your fat belly

with sadness and dismay

You have boobs just like your mrs

and you groan when you stand up

and for no good reason you prefer

to use the same old coffee cup

There was some consolation
for the turning of the years
One small crumb of comfort
to keep me in good cheer

That although age is something
that comes to every man
At least I saw it wasn't
a chuffing cardigan

Tim Fellows 2019

I Wannaby

This is a poem for my grandsons David and Edward and for all my Australian friends, who have had a bad week.

Photo by Glen Fergus (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)]

I Wannaby

I wanna be a wallaby
For if I were a wallaby
I'd lie beneath a leafy tree
I'd be so bouncy and carefree
and be as happy as could be
If I were a wallaby

I wanna be a kangaroo
For if I were a kangaroo
I'd do the stuff marsupials do
in the bush - or in a zoo
Hop around and graze and chew
If I were a kangaroo

I wanna be a grey koala
For if I were a grey koala
I'd welcome you into my parlour
and my Eucalyptus larder
I'd really be a tourist charmer
If I were a grey koala

I wanna be a yellow dingo
For if I were a yellow dingo
I would into your rubbish bin go
I'd only speak in dingo lingo
and have a good old howling sing 
Oh if I were a yellow dingo

I wanna be a Great White shark
For if I were a Great White shark
I'd glide in where the buoys are marked
or sneak into a Water Park
Oh what fun! What a lark!
If I were a Great White Shark

I wanna be a Queensland croc
For if I were a Queensland croc
I'd wait with the patience of a clock
tick tock tick tock tick tick tock
Then I'd give you a horrible shock!
If I were a Queensland croc

I wanna be an Eastern Brown
If I were an Eastern Brown
I'd slither in to your home town
and when the sun was going down
I'd hide inside your dressing gown
If I were an Eastern Brown

I wanna be a redback spider
If I were a redback spider
I'd scuttle in and hide inside a
shoe or glove or somewhere wider
I could wait and then I'd bite yer
If I were a redback spider

But, actually....

I don't wanna be a wallaby
with a joey on my knee
I don't wanna be a horrid shark
or dingo with its warning bark
I don't wanna be a kangaroo
or snake or shark or spider too
I just wanna live in a southern land
where its so easy to get tanned
when I get there I'll try to mail yer
if the animals don't get me - in Australia

Tim Fellows 2018

In Memory of the Real Football Fan

This is for all you football fans out there - especially those in blue and white who are not having the best of weeks. It was written by my dad in the 1970s and is accompanied by his drawings. It's an early start for tomorrow's National Poetry Day with its theme of freedom - which is what I felt after 25 years of being chained to Chesterfield FC and finally realising it wasn't worth it.

Owd Nick 'n' Yung Tom

The absolutely 100% true story of how we got our crooked spire.



Owd Nick 'n' Yung Tom

Owd Nick com darn ter Darbiesher
In sum owden time
'E thowt 'e'd start sum mischiff
An' 'e kicked off wi' this rhyme

"'Im upsteers 's med this land
its grand as owt an' fair
Well ar've com 'ere to mek it woss
Ah'll ruin it, ah swair!"

'E flew abaht them peaks an' crags
'E tonned the rivers red
'E stared raight at an 'undred shaip
'An killed 'em all ston ded

A peasant, name 'o Thomas Dunn
'E wor raight big'n'strong
'd bin plowin' near ter Chesterfield
'E'd bin wokkin' 'ard'n'long

'E'd just sat darn to 'ay 'is snap
When Owd Nick com flyin' past
'E slew Tom's ox wi' a flay orriz tail
'It 'appened laightnin' fast

Off went Owd Nick darn ter t'tarn
Tom stood and shook 'is 'ed
'is fizzog war laik thunder
'it 'ad gone ten shades o' red

'E ripped a tree raight art o't grarnd
'An set off runnin' after Nick
'E ran to keep 'im in 'is sight
'E wor battin' - a raight owd lick

When Nick reached t'tarn 'e 'ad sum fun
'E wor causin' lots o' bother
'E drank all't beer in't Market Place
'An peed it art in't Rother

By t'time yung Tom caught up wi' 'im
'E'd sat on top o't church
'E wor laughin' fit ter bost
Up theer on 'is perch

"Oi Lucy! Get thissen darn 'ere,
Ah'v 'ad me fill o' thee;
"Tha'll get what's comin' raight enough
Wen tha picks a faight wi' me"

Nick couldn't believe 'is 'airy lugs
This barmpot must be cracked;
E' wor climbin' up outside 'o t'church
Wi' a tree strapped ter 'is back

He wrapped 'is tail ararnd the spire
'An stared raight in Tom's eyes
"Tha darst com 'ere and faight wi' me?"
"Ah duz", yung Tom replies

Nick took a swipe wi' 'is deadly claw
But Tom swayed art o't road
then whacked 'im w't tree in 'is ugly chops
until 'is grain blood flowed

'E wor raight shakken wor'oary Nick
Tom dealt him blow on blow
'E flicked 'is tail raight off o't spire
An' scurried back below





"Ar, womit thee, ah'll gi' thi' more
If tha wants me to!!"
Tom louked darn ter see that t'spire
wor twisted laik a screw

Folk wor cheerin' young Tom Dunn
As 'e slid down from up t'top
Rarnd and rarnd that twisted spire
Til 'e com turra stop.

"That lonned 'im, Sorrey!", blarts art Tom
to that cheerin' crard
They all et souse'n'tonnips
an' drank beer darn't Falcon Yard.






Nar, lowk ovver theer, si fer thissen
'Ow t'devil med it twist'n'buck;
Tom'd tell yer't tale 'imsen
if yer bort 'im beer in't Mucky Duck

(c) Tim Fellows 2017 with help from the spirit of Tom Dunn

Passive Aggression in an English Office Kitchen

This is absolutely not a true story. Honestly. 


Passive Aggression in an English Office Kitchen

Day 1:
All the bloody milk's gone again, says A
We had 6 pints this morning, says B
It's people having their breakfast, (A again)
They should have it at home

Day 2:
It's 8.30am and I'm making a coffee
C comes in - mutual Hi's but I notice
she's carrying a packet of Weetabix;
my eyes narrow in suspicion

Day 3:
All the bloody milk's gone again, says A
It's only 3 o'clock
B shrugs - Shall I put a note up
Best not, says A, not worth the hassle

Day 4:
A has a point, for there has been a note
reminding people to put their dirty dishes
in the dishwasher, not the sink. It is in large red letters,
capitals. SHOUTING, but impersonal and ignored.
It is torn

Day 5:
8.42am A catches C eating Weetabix in the communal room
Milk dribbling down their chin and spilt on the table.
He says nothing - his mouth is tight shut. No Hi! today.
She puts it in the sink and leaves it.
3pm - All the bloody milk's gone again, says A

Tim Fellows 2017

The Ghost Of Emily Wilding Davison.....

The Ghost Of Emily Wilding Davison Goes to Chesterfield Bowling Club on Hearing That They Have Voted to Not Admit Women

 BBC report
 
The outraged, resolute phantom
descended on the town.
Made a beeline for the Bowls Club
and flattened down their crown

She glided round the trim green lawn
diverting all the bowls.
She took a trip to the countryside
and brought back fourteen moles

She flew into the clubhouse
and put laxative in the beer.
She listened to the members chat;
wondering what they could fear.

About a missing chromosome
and the ability to give birth?
She'd died a hundred years before
to allow women to prove their worth.

As she sat there eavesdropping
she stopped being quite so mad.
And just felt pity there instead
because they were merely.. sad.

She allowed herself a giggle
at the panic it would bring
if a transgender bowler
applied to join their gang.

They'd all join her soon enough,
those cantankerous old men.
And their grandsons would vote for
not just old cocks, but hens

So she gathered up the fourteen moles
and restored their grassy crown.
But before she left she made sure
she put the loo seats down.

Emily Davison, suffragette

The Long-Leggedy Man

The Long-Leggedy Man

There is a man who stands so tall
I don't know how he walks at all

He wears blue clothes and a smart red hat
I don't know how he walks like that

He says hello and lifts his trilby
And says "good day" to the folks of Balby

He has long legs but tiny feet
How he gets around has got me beat!

It would be great to be that high
Up there with the birds that fly

Around your head and your waving flags
As tiny kids run between your legs

Long-leggedy man,  this poem's for you
the one who walks like we can't do

(c) Tim Fellows 2017

The Dog in the Hi-Viz

Written for my mate Dave Elsom's birthday - hope you like it!

This may have happened...

The Dog in the Hi-Viz

The small dog gaily trips along
He wears a tiny Hi-Viz coat
on a daily perambulation where
paths are marked and learned by rote

His Hi-Viz marks him out as special
It makes him bigger than he is
"You can't stop there!", "You can't do that!"
Authority is quite rightly his

He stops for a tiny but perfect poo
Stares at it with admiring eyes
that look accusingly at the man
"Clean it up!" the glance implies

The owner bends with plastic bag
as the officious canine checks his work
The stool is scooped, he seems content
that his so-called master didn't shirk

The lamppost is examined too
Sniff of wet and sensitive nose
Then delicately cocks his leg
in a confident yet careful pose

The world is safer than it was before
the tiny pooch checked out his route
wearing his tiny Hi-Viz vest;
Job done - and he looked so very cute

(c) Tim Fellows 2017

3G Killed the Pub Quiz

3G Killed the Pub Quiz

Whispered answers, furtive looks
at the new team near the bar
"Win a gallon!" the landlord shouts
"Not much chance" says Bob, "so far"

"What is the national gemstone
of Australia?" (question ten)
"It's opal" whispers Julie
 It's a mystery to the men

But what's that commotion over there
Some students falling out
With regulars sitting nearby
We begin to hear them shout

"You cheating little bastard!"
"You're asking for a clout"
More words exchanged, a drink is launched
the landlord chucks them out

"He's using a fancy phone" says Bob
"on that internet"
"How does that work", says Jimmy
"Do you have to send a text?"

Thus began the gradual end
of our twice-weekly fun
We'd rarely won, that's not the point,
a new age had begun

Where the only place a pub quiz works
Is at that moorland pub
where there's bugger all reception
and they do some lovely grub

(c) Tim Fellows 2017

A Glutton's Lament

This poem had been just a single line for quite a while and I couldn't get the hook to do the rest. then I heard the brilliant John Shuttleworth's "Mingling with mourners" (listen here) and that did the trick. This isn't me - honestly! - it's that voice inside me that I think we all have and which most can keep under control most of the time. The greedy, selfish, apethetic voice that is the scourge of humanity.

A Glutton's Lament

When you're invited to a funeral
And then on to the wake
Do you wonder what the food's like?
Will they have chocolate cake?

When you get there how quickly
Is it socially allowed
To dive into the buffet
To beat off the starving crowd

You'd rather it be someone else
That started the stampede
The respectful yet hurried shuffle
To get stuck into their feed

If it's a stingy family
Who'd rather keep more cash
For themselves than spend it
On a decent funeral bash

Then make sure that you're in early
Pick out the decent nosh
Chicken legs, vol-au-vents
Anything that's posh

If there's lots of oldies
Their appetite's not great
You might get round for seconds
Fill up another plate

But if you've got a family
That's picked a good supplier
A massive spread with loads of stuff
then pile your bowl up higher

"Yes, Auntie Jane, it's very sad"
You say between each chew
You're eyeing up the cheeseboard
the Stilton, Blacksticks Blue...

Then when everybody's gone
The last few mourners left
There's sandwiches aplenty
Do you think it's really theft

To take a little extra
To have for later on
When you're sat watching telly
With your pyjamas on 

Then you remember you need something
that will your supper snare
You really, really, really wish
you had some Tupperware

(c) Tim Fellows 2017