Glass Houses Poem by Sailing to windward

It was a glorious day in Padstow:
A real seaside bucket and spade day.
We strolled the little Cornish port in sunshine:
wifey and girls in search of arty bargains:
me, amused by fat lady postcards.

"We're just popping in here", they said
"Where will you be? ", wifey asked, in that
"we don't want you around, yawning,
while we shop for girly stuff", type way.
Me? , I reply innocently,
Me? , I'll just take a look at the boats.

"Biggest ever " and "buy one, get one free"
The Cornish pasty shop sign teased.
"A super jumbo gut filler please", I said,
lowering my head in shame.

So that I hadn't lied,
I made my way to the harbour.
Sitting on a bench, I unwrapped the paper
and exposed the full meaty magnificence of that
beautiful, mouth watering,creation.
The salt air now complimented with savoury, oniony, deliciousness.

A screech,
a flurry of grey and white, and then pain.
Blood poured from my now empty hand and
Jonathon Livingston bloody seagull,
flying heavy and low, disappeared with my pasty.
I swear I heard a voice from above say,
"People in glass houses fat boy,
people in glass houses..."