Plates of meat,
That do defeat
Logic and rhyme.

Malodorous, odorous,
With a character
All their own —
No wonder I’m
Stood here on my own.

Fetid and reeking,
Put me right off eating.
Don’t get me wrong —
By God, they pong.

They’ve got quite nifty
Somewhat,
Rather swiftly.

What a pen and ink,
It makes you
Stop and think…
Ripe like Camembert.

God, they stink!
Don’t kiss and tell.
Cor blimey —
Is this hell?

How’s your father? Alright?