Full Breakfast Poem by Mark Heathcote

Fried bread, Lord, who's still not-been-fed
not me, a little voice said
who said that? A park duck
or some hard-luck Indian fatherless kid.
Eggs and bacon, God, is there no
red ketchup or baked beans,
hey kid, get up off your soiled knees.
After collecting that plastic garbage
with an iron hook in a cardboard box
whilst your mother's outselling her body,
with some pox-up jocks
hey, can we have some grilled tomatoes,
and black pudding and mushrooms on the side
I'll have a coffee over here! It's rainy outside.
Hey child - you'll soon be a bride!
A suitor for you shouldn't be hard to find?
Let's tip the waitress boys; she so looks suppressed
depressed - but at least she's got a uniform
and a collection fund and a council house
and at the weekend-she's-pissed and jocund.
Hell, I could eat another pork sausage!
Later we'll go to, The Nags Head
even-later-still, play some cribbage
the wife-at-home can wait at home alone.
I've got the waitress now to phone.