How to Murder a Sunday Roast
Mums cooking said Jan, so let’s have beans on toast
How to Murder a Sunday Roast
Get up late, no apron, no shame,
the meat’s still frozen, blame the game.
Peel the tatties if they dare
to roll off worktops, curse and swear.
Shove the bird in, hope it’s dead,
baste with lager, scratch your head.
Smoke alarm’s your only guide,
gravy’s stuck to last week’s pride.
Carrots limp, like hopes in June,
Yorkshires sink like a bad balloon.
Stuffing’s black, the mash is glue,
sauce explodes in shades of blue.
Table set with chips instead,
“Where’s the roast?” the children said.
You hand out plates, you pour the wine,
“Best I’ve made,” you boldly lie.
No one speaks, they chew with care,
one tooth gone, but no one dares
to question art or stab your pride,
not when they want to stay alive.
Then Grandma mutters with a grin,
“Next week love, we’ll order in.”
About the Creator
Marie381Uk
I've been writing poetry since the age of fourteen. With pen in hand, I wander through realms unseen. The pen holds power; ink reveals hidden thoughts. A poet may speak truth or weave a tale. You decide. Let pen and ink capture your mind❤️
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By Vocal Curation Team6 days ago in Resources
Comments (2)
Lol - Next week we will order in. Thanks Marie for making me laugh. I needed it today. Nicely Done!!
Lol, yep that will definitely do it! Thanks for giving me a laugh this morning :-)