Not too busy
Nor bacon flavoured,
Nor pig,
Nor sandwich to be savoured.
Tis truth good sir
I’ve oftly laboured,
My bacon butties
Truly savoured,
By the great and the good,
By kings amongst men,
By the rich, by the poor;
In my kit chen.
I think flavour
Is a personal thing.
Makes one man weep,
Makes another man sing.
‘Tis consummately to be wished,
A bacon butty,
When you’re p*ssed. (Drunk)
Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths
Or a humble chip butty, fondly scoffed.
Give me a kingly, cooked spud
Grown in soil
Before shuffling off this mortal coil.
Wi bickering brattle
And application of butter,
Expertly applied
Caused no hearts to flutter.
Should it ever occur,
If that was to be,
I’d recommend an E.C.G.