This is an old one of mine that I've dickied up a bit.
It came to me quite suddenly, as I lay in my bed –
that wholesome taste that one-time graced our slices of white bread.
Rich and sweet, ‘twas quite a treat but, like the Dublin tram,
it’s had its day, gone on its way – the pot of greengage jam.
Look on the shelf in shops yourself. There’s jams of every flavour -
kiwi, plum, chrysanthemum - to sample and to savour.
Blue ones, red ones, hard-to-spread ones, elderflower and yam.
Oh yes, there’s lots of jars and pots, but not of greengage jam.
How did they stop this luscious crop? Quickly, or in stages?
Did harvests fail through snow and hail? What happened to greengages?
Was there a coup in Katmandu? A putsch in Surinam?
Is civil war the reason for the lack of greengage jam?
Whate’er the cause, it’s time to pause and doff our caps with piety;
to bow the head and mourn the spread that’s lost unto society.
Technology means naught to me - you can’t eat texts or spam -
but how I miss the luscious kiss of rich, ripe greengage jam.
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