We spread the blanket, sorted out the goodies,
Anticipating how we’d be delighted
By salmon, lobster, creamy little puddies ...
A family arrived, quite uninvited:
Two parents, three young girls, a pair of babies
That rapidly grew smellier and damper,
A snarling dog that made us think of rabies
Who, having peed against our picnic hamper,
Ran off with half a leg of roasted chicken
Then bounded back for more, obscenely drooling.
Their youngest daughter managed to be sick in
The bucket where our Bollinger was cooling.
Grabbing her twins, the mother got them teating;
The others started chewing something rancid.
‘Bon appetit!’ they said, but we weren’t eating;
We’d lost our appetite for what we’d fancied.
At last, the picnic interval was finished.
Although we felt unnourished, cross and weary,
Our spirits crushed, our joie de vivre diminished,
Without a picnic, Glyndebourne would be dreary.
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