Today’spoem

THE LAST MINCE PIE The last mince pie stood all alone, Twixt the vol-au-vents and a chicken bone, His life was short; yet very sweet. Home-made, not bought, from fine mincemeat. Alas, he was a proud mince pie, A perky friendly lad, He knew his fate, that time was short, But vowed to not be sad. ‘Just one left, Fred,’ came the piercing cry, From two large ruby lips. ‘With brandy butter, or just dry, With one or two small nips.’ I’m sad to say the plate’s now clean, Our friend, he left in haste, Exit the party without a word, To live on, on someone’s waist.