Today’s poem

AT THE BULLDOG INN

We Pilgrims came upon the

Bulldog Inn, An oak-beamed English

tavern, and within The landlord, Nigel,

ventured to suggest: ‘Our British fare’s the finest

to ingest, And hungriness is written in

your eyes. I’ve sausage rolls, Welsh

rarebit and pork pies, Roast beef and Yorkshire

puds to fill your face, Or Cornish pasties, chips

with cod or plaice; And washing down with

victuals while you dine, I’ll lay on scrumpy, not

some Froggy wine. For afters, rhubarb

crumble, spotted dick, Enough to make a

gormandiser sick. I’ll serve your grub on plates from Stoke-on-Trent, With knives and forks and

spoons that never dent, Forged in the North, from

sturdy Sheffield steel; So let me take the order

for your meal.’ ‘Alas!’ quod we. ‘The hour is

early still — A Continental breakfast, if

you will.’

Paul A. Freeman, Abu Dhabi.