I like a cup of coffee or green tea,
Or proper beer or Chilean red wine,
But if Rioja’s offered, I’ll agree:
You see, I’m really not the sort to whine.
I’m unsophisticated, got no spine
When I see fancy foodstuffs I despise:
I don’t like fruit much, such as apple-pine,
Or even vegetables; give me pies.
Despite this, my intestines win a prize
For quick digestion with efficiency
And very little wind, which is a sign
That stuff called roughage is where my heart lies.
A jacket potato, the humble pea,
Some breakfast cereal, and it’s all fine.
Sun 12 Aug 2007
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