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 bake beans,
Hey kid get-up off your soiled knees.
After collecting that plastic garbage
With an iron-hook in a cardboard box
Whilst your mothers out selling 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 counsel house
And at the weekend she's pissed and jocund.
Hell I could eat another pork sausage!
Latter we'll go to The Nags Head
And even later still play some cribbage
The wife at home she can wait at home alone.
I've got the waitress to phone.
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