Sunday Roast Poem by Frank Freimuth

For three long days we had that pie
the taste of which would make us cry;
then fish and chips became our daily meal -
the wounds it caused are still to heal.

We asked ourselves if we could do with toast,
but in the pub nearby they offered Sunday roast.
It had so sweet a fragrance and so fine
- we were not even tempted to decline.

I even thought of marrying the cook
but was obstructed by her husband's strangest look.
So I restrained myself, proposing them a toast
to the delicious taste of Sunday roast.