Pasticidal Thoughts
I am a Cornish pasty
In a static caravan
I’ve held this spot, all piping hot
Since, oh, the dawn of Man
I’ve burned the lips of idiots
In this, my perfect pitch
All meat and spud to trick the dud,
The dimwit and the rich
Pepper, swede and onion
Fill up my pastry case
And here I heat, a Western treat
And always in one place
My wheels are not for turning
But I can fill the gob
Of Kernow purists and the tourists
I see this as my job
George, you are the chancellor
Of cream and caviar
You do not scoff me, you’re a toff
And ride inside a car
You slapped a tax upon us
And caused a budget storm
You’ve changed your mind – how very kind –
But frankly I’m lukewarm
Yes, here in my immobile home
If I may make so bold
I think of you, as a pasty who
Is going very cold
Click here to read a Telegraph article
