I used to have egg and chips for tea, five nights a week,
until someone found a mouse in the cooking fat.
On Saturdays I had sandwiches.
Sometimes we had raspberries and ice cream.
They only tasted nice when you mixed them together,
stirring them around the bowl.
But Mum never let you do that.

I was sick once because we had mandarin oranges instead.
I ate them without chewing them, the sick lay in the bath for ages,
with a nice, neat pile of solid mandarins in the middle.
I always preferred raspberries.

I don’t have tea anymore,
because someone found a dead dog in the cooking fat.
It was alongside the maggot infested chicken,
and half opened, rusted tin of Yeoman potatoes,
with flies buzzing around it.

You see our kitchen isn’t used anymore, no one goes in there now.
I couldn’t tell you what it looks like.
But I know there are yellow and black vinyl tiles on the floor,
though they’re covered in something.
I saw it once, it’s about two feet deep and smells sweet and sickly.

I can’t live at home anymore, that’s why I’ve run away.
I have cups of tea now without tasting that sweet, sickly taste.
I have slices of toast now, without having to look for hairs and dirt and things.
I have egg and chips for tea now, five nights a week,
because I like it.

© Edward ian Armchair 2002