[Brian Allgar]

A delightful piece, John.

But "Puddocks in the stew"? ... No, if I want to sleep at night, I'd better not ask what they are.

[John Whitworth]

Thank you, Brian. They are frogs.

[Rob Stuart]

It is often hard to stifle our contempt for sherry trifle,
We simply hate smoked trout and Sunday roast.
Each one of us would rather get a chunk of lightly grilled baguette;
The lot of us are massive fans of toast.

Though the rich, from king to mobster, like to dine on finest lobster,
That’s not the food we hanker for the most.
We’d much prefer to slip outside a slice of crispy Mother’s Pride;
There’s nothing better in this world than toast.

We never feel inclined to eat of fruit and veg or fish or meat;
Our company is totally engrossed
In farinaceous fare instead, to wit these bits of crunchy bread.
We need no other sustenance than toast.

This obsession keeps us merry in the face of beriberi,
So charge your glasses from our scurvied host.
Be upstanding! But be quick, it’s rather painful with these rickets-
And let’s all toast a toast to good old toast!

[Jerome Betts]

Nice one, Rob. Not really intended to rebut your Oldie diatribe but . . .

O spruitje, sprout I rave about
You’re full of A and C
And boiled or roast you are the most
Ambrosial dish for me.

Cabbage, in fact, but so compact,
A globe of fetching green,
Or when it’s Yule the rocket fuel
That lifts the festive scene.

Born in Brabant, some lucky plant
Mutated to become
Choux de Bruxelles, which did so well
All rivals are ho-hum.

But as for gas, I'll let it pass
As just an evil slur
Spread by some troll, dear Rosenkohl,
Delicious crucifer!

[Brian Allgar]

Of all the fishes in the sea,
You are the greatest mystery;
I crave elucidation.
There’s small fish, big fish - you’ll agree,
From tiddler to monstrosity
All brilliant at natation.

Yet you’re a sort of piscine klutz;
Your circular design is nuts.
Perhaps I’m being dim,
But, coiled so everything abuts,
A wooden skewer through your guts,
How can a rollmop swim?

[Martin Parker]

Robbie Burns Confesses

Och aye the noo! Wha' seems scarce credible:
I ne'er did think the haggis edible.
Nae dram there was could get me tight
enow tae tak one single bite.

'Twas but the braw neep's sonsie face
that saved your Rabbie the disgrace
of hiding in his sporran's maw
the food which sae convulsed his craw.

Buttered, bashed, most welcome neep
'tis thee on whom Scots pipes should heap
wi' skirling notes o' vaunti sound
their praise when Burns Night comes around.

Fine sonsie unsung neep, your place
is chieftain o' the root-veg race.
A toast to thee, this Rabbie's saviour,
for smothering yon haggis flavour.

[Brian Allgar]

(Well, I can't begin to do Burns, so I'll have to fall back on another old standby ...)

Shall I compare thee to a sausage roll?
Nay, thou art tastier and more refined;
Thine outer substance is the very soul
Of pastry, art and nourishment combined.
Thy golden crust that crumbles in the fingers
Before ‘tis swallowed by the eager throat;
Thy richly-buttered redolence that lingers
Upon the palate like a velvet coat.
And in thy tender heart, what creamy sauces
Embracing shrimps or sweetbreads may be found!
What need have I of other meats or courses
With these piled up before me in a mound?
I’d gladly gorge on thee throughout the day,
O vol-au-vent! Thou art the nonpareil!

[Martin Parker]

Brian,
I have just found your contribution to the Penguin Book of Limericks (publ. as long ago as 1983.).
Clearly you are not the up and coming young prodigy many of us might have imagined you to be!

Incidentally, are you still in touch with the "young maiden named Sue" whose twin manifestations of health so clearly impressed you more than thirty years ago ?

[Brian Allgar]

Blimey, Martin! I didn't even know I was in the Penguin Book of Limericks. How on earth did that happen? And I've no recollection of anyone called Sue. From what you say, I wish I had. Would you care to send me the piece in question?

You're quite right about my age. A couple of years ago, after a 35-year absence from competitions, I wrote a piece that began:

"I started 'comping' back in '67 ..."

If I ever need a new pseudonym, I may use "Methuselah".

[Peter Goulding]

Curious how all of the contributions so far have eulogised low cuisine (except perhaps the lobsters) Personally I'm disgusted they never have Butterscotch Angel Delight on the menu in restaurants.

Malted milk

How shall I eat thee, tempting Malted Milk,
more pastoral than any of thy ilk?
‘Tis writ this should be done in proper order,
so first I shall remove thy bobbled border.

Then with incisors shall I fondly eat
the grass that sprouts beneath the cattle’s feet.
(Throughout my life I oft have nibbled grass
but shortcake grass is surely diff’rent class.)

To the words, superfluous in thy frame,
as if we might forget thy wondrous name!
So is ‘Malted Milk’ devoured in haste,
the zenith of good literary taste.

Which leaves the cows: this scene I split in half
and separate the milk cow from the calf.
First I eat the bairn and then the mother,
brush my lips, then reach down for another.