The bacon crackles in the pan
The eggs are almost done
The mushrooms and the toast are ready
For the rising of the sun.

We show restraint at lunchtime
Just a salad and some meat.
And perhaps a little ice-cream
As a special midday treat.

The kettle whistles happily
And discharges of its steam
There's nothing like a cuppa
And a sticky bun with cream.

After the daily work is done
It's time for our main spread
A side of beef, or lamb or pork
With gravy and some bread.

When the meal is over, and
Satiation clouds your thought
Get out the cheese and biscuits
And pass around the port.

Now your eyes are drooping
The shadows dark and deep
But a steaming cup of cocoa
Slides you gently into sleep.

Open the belt another notch
Your face all flushed and red.
You Epicurean benefactor
Who keeps the tailors fed.


Penned by my hand on the 16th of Glacian, in the year 387 AF.